Pages and Co 3: Tilly and the Map of Stories

by Anna James

  ‘But why not?’ Tilly repeated.

  ‘Because they didn’t want our interference,’ Artemis said. ‘The resources of the Archive used to draw bookwanderers here – for advice, for guidance, for reference. We existed above the politics of different countries and policies, and the Underlibraries increasingly resented our position. They wanted to be able to get on with their own plans, even if it meant damaging stories or bookwanderers, and they didn’t want any evidence of what they’d done. Look.’

  She opened Tilly’s archive again and found a different page. On it there was a description of when Tilly and Oskar had bookwandered right to the edge of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and into the Endpapers. But the record simply stopped when they reached the Endpapers, saying only, ‘As a half-fictional person, Matilda was propelled from the Endpapers to the British Underlibrary, alongside Oskar Roux.’

  And then it stopped, and only picked up again once they’d bookwandered into A Little Princess to rescue Bea.

  ‘So … you know I’m half fictional,’ Tilly said. ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Yes,’ Artemis said gently. ‘I have been following how your bookwandering abilities have manifested as best I can, and I sent you the map in the hope that your skills might be of use in helping me work out why the magic is leaking out of the Archive, and if it has anything to do with all the missing books. Speaking of which, Tilly, in answer to your earlier query about the vines: you remember I just told you that the original Archivist was not of Story and so he was ultimately claimed back by the outside world? Well, I think perhaps that the reverse is happening to you: Story is trying to reclaim you.’

  ‘What?’ said Tilly.

  ‘You are half fictional – half from the world of Story. And I think Story is trying to take you back – to claim you as one of its own.’

  Tilly stared at her. ‘But why now?’ she asked in horror.

  ‘You’ve been making your presence known since you learned you were a bookwanderer. And now, travelling through layers of stories in order to visit us here, has made you even more visible,’ Artemis answered. ‘I can only apologise if my desire for you to visit has exacerbated matters. It may also be linked to the disruption going on in Story. After all, its very foundations are being shaken. It may settle down once we’ve sorted this out, and so now we have one more reason to solve this mystery.’

  ‘You said that the original Archivist isn’t here any more,’ Oskar said. ‘So, are there still people here apart from you? Other Archivists?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Artemis said. ‘And I think it’s perhaps time that you met some of them.’

  Artemis carefully replaced Tilly’s record on the shelf and the three of them walked back through the glistening white room to the main entrance hall, which seemed dark and old-fashioned in comparison. As they walked up the grand central staircase, Artemis’s foot went right through the wood, but she simply shook it out again and carried on.

  ‘Mind your step,’ she said over her shoulder to Tilly and Oskar.

  ‘This place is weird,’ Oskar whispered to Tilly.

  ‘I know,’ Tilly said. ‘I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.’

  ‘Now, I’m not sure where any of the Archivists will be at any given moment,’ Artemis went on. ‘And it’s a long time since most of them have had any visitors, so they mainly keep to their rooms. But we might find some of them in the library. Shall we see?’

  She gestured at a door with a neat wooden plaque next to it that did indeed read ‘Library’. There was a bloom of mould on the paint where the sign was fixed to the wall. Artemis opened the door for them, and they entered a beautiful library that on the surface looked like the perfect place to relax and read – apart from the fact that there were two men shouting at each other in the middle of the room.

  One of them was wearing a loose-fitting shirt tucked into velvet trousers that stopped at his knee, and stockings. He had quite long hair and an earring in one ear. The other, his dark hair slicked down from a severe centre parting, was wearing a sharply cut suit and holding a champagne glass.

  ‘The thing is, Will, old sport,’ the one holding the champagne glass said with a strong American accent, leaning insouciantly on the mantelpiece, ‘is that you’re just NOT LISTENING.’ A bit of champagne sloshed out of his glass as he raised his voice.

  ‘No, it is you who listens not,’ the man called Will retorted. ‘And, if you persist in ignorance, I shall have no choice but to believe you do it to cause me harm.’

  ‘Boy, if I get under your skin, it’s merely a bonus,’ the American man replied. ‘You sure do overestimate how much time I spend thinking about your feelings.’

  ‘Nay, only a fool would believe that,’ Will said. ‘And you cast about in pursuit of distraction. If you were the gentleman you profess to be, it would be the time to confess ’twas you, and you alone, who cast my good ruff into yonder fishing pond.’

  ‘I will do nothing of the sort, old sport,’ the American said. ‘For it ain’t my fault!’

  Artemis coughed and the two men noticed the new arrivals.

  ‘Come now, gentlemen,’ Artemis said. ‘We have guests. Now, Tilly, Oskar, this is Scott Fitzgerald, over by the fireplace, and Will Shakespeare, two of our Archivists.’

  s this all a very, very complicated practical joke?’ Oskar said to Tilly in disbelief. ‘Because I thought she just said that was William Shakespeare.’

  ‘Young sir,’ Will said, coming over and bowing deeply before them. ‘Truly, I feel that I am suffering at the service of some other man’s twisted humour many days, but I assure you we are who we claim to be. To imprison writers in a purgatory such as this goes against all I hold dear as a good English gentleman. Imagine! I was lying on my deathbed, waiting to shuffle off this mortal coil, and behold! I awaken here. With only men such as this for company,’ he said, gesturing at Scott, who rolled his eyes behind Will’s back. ‘He has been here an infinitesimal fraction of time compared to what I have been forced to endure, and as such has no excuse for the abominable way he behaves.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Tilly asked.

  ‘This marks somewhere just beyond my four hundredth year,’ Will said wearily. ‘One rather loses a sense of time for want of anything to busy the mind with.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be helping bookwandering?’ Tilly said quietly. ‘That’s sort of what we’d been led to believe.’

  ‘It is true that we helped those who sought aid of us for a time,’ Will said. ‘But the true purpose of our existence here has been lost to myth, I fear. I know the good lady Artemis tends to the Archive, but what use it is to us I do not know, for no one comes to consult it any more. A hall of unread stories, unwillingly given by their subjects. Once we were glad to aid those who worked in the service of the written or spoken word, and invited those who wished to write and read and explore ideas to do so alongside us, the greatest minds of our times. But the limits of our aid were exhausted, our motives were questioned and, if those who live continue in their folly – as they are fated to do – then who are we to realign the stars?’

  ‘If I had known what was waiting here for me,’ Scott chimed in, ‘then I think I would’ve made more of an effort to stay alive, to be sure. When I was among the living, I wanted everyone to know my name, but if I’d understood what was in store for me, I’m not sure I would have chosen the same profession.’

  ‘On that we can be agreed,’ said Will. ‘But people love what you’ve written!’ Tilly said, horrified at the idea of a world without The Great Gatsby or Romeo and Juliet. ‘Oh, you flatter me, child,’ Will said, clearly pleased at the praise. ‘But what worth have stories when all is reduced to dust? You write and the people applaud, but it is a dangerous thing to believe that they care. When I lived, I thought, as you still do, that stories could alter the very movement of the heavens. But the world will not be changed, however much we wish it so. What are books or plays or sonnets but a few hours of trifli
ng pleasure in exchange for a brief moment of forgetfulness?’

  ‘Hear, hear, old sport,’ Scott said, toasting the air with his nearly empty champagne flute.

  ‘My lady,’ Will said to Artemis, ‘if you perchance see Jane or Charles, will you tell them that I seek their company. I tire of Americans.’

  The two men started arguing again, but Artemis shushed them.

  ‘I was hoping, Will, that you might give Tilly and Oskar here a quick tour round the Archive. I thought you’d be more excited to see some new people; it’s been so long since we’ve had visitors. And, as you just said yourself, you need a change of company. Why don’t you go and see if you can find Jane or Charles yourself, and take Tilly and Oskar with you?’

  ‘Am I to be a nursemaid to children now?’ he protested.

  ‘Tilly and Oskar are fine young people who have travelled very far to speak to us,’ Artemis replied. ‘And, if you don’t wish to talk to them, you will have very little grounds for complaints about boredom or your purpose here in the future.’

  ‘Very well,’ Will said. ‘If only to give myself some respite from this old sport,’ he finished sarcastically.

  ‘Wonderful, I’ll leave you three to it,’ Artemis said. ‘Will, if you bring them back downstairs to the reception room when you’re done, I’ll come and find you there.’

  ‘I imagine it will only be a brief turn about the place,’ Will said wearily. ‘For there is very little of interest to show you.’

  Tilly had thought visiting the Library of Alexandria was unusual, but that had been topped by a forest made of paper, which in turn had seemed normal when they travelled on a train through stories, and now she was getting a tour of a building with William Shakespeare.

  ‘I must apologise,’ Will said as they walked along a corridor leading from the library. ‘You will think ill of me. It has been a long while since we had guests here, and I have allowed that gentleman to worry his way ’neath my skin. We were the closest of friends when first he arrived, but our friendship has soured so, and everything he says makes me wish to plunge myself into the fishing pond after my poor, unfortunate ruff.’

  Will was tracing his hand listlessly along the wall as he walked and dragging his feet, more like a petulant teenager than the world’s most famous playwright.

  ‘So, who chooses which writers get to be Archivists?’ Tilly asked, trying to find out more about how it all worked, and what the Archivists could possibly do to help with their situation.

  ‘Oh, it is a magic unknown to me,’ Will said disconsolately. ‘I suppose those of us who were so fortunate in life as to think we held the minds and hearts of our public are now taunted by that very fact. The lady Artemis tells us it is not the doing of any man or woman, but that this abode is a resting place of imagination that draws us to it – the same energy that creates that confounded Archive downstairs. She says it as though it should be considered a great compliment to be here, and I grant you, in years gone by, there were times of such merriment and inspiration, with guests and gatherings and masques and balls.’

  ‘Why did it change?’ Tilly asked.

  ‘It is hard to know now; it happened by such small moments,’ Will said. ‘But there were those who wished us to solve all the world’s ills and would not take to heart that perfection is an impossible goal. We had not the power to solve what was brought before us, and those who wander in books became disillusioned, and angry, and sought power and opportunity, not wisdom and solace.’ He paused to look down at Tilly and Oskar. ‘Was a map sent to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tilly said. ‘Sort of – more a collection of clues.’

  ‘We had such larks designing those maps,’ Will said wistfully. ‘We would come together and create charts of such beauty and intricacy, which we would send out through stories in order to aid the wanderers who were looking to find their way here. But, as their resentment grew, we created fewer maps, and allowed fewer ways to find us. We buried ourselves deeper and deeper within tales, and so we no longer resided in books within books, but in the very fabric of Story. And now look: it frays around us, and we cannot leave but I fear we cannot stay.’

  ‘Why can’t you leave?’ asked Oskar.

  ‘Several dear friends have attempted departures over the years,’ Will explained. ‘And, despite the pleas of those who have seen it occur, we were forced over and over again to watch our allies dissolve into the air around us in front of our very eyes. I do not wish such a fate upon myself, even if this is the only alternative. Ay, my friends and allies and this very Archive collapse around us, and we have nothing to save ourselves with!’ he wailed.

  He pointed dramatically to a crack running down the wall. ‘For even our words have no might against the destruction of imagination!’ he finished. The crack was actually not that large, and Will gave it a bit of a bang with his fist. It looked as though he were trying to work the bash into his expression of woe, but Tilly couldn’t help notice that he looked more satisfied when a bit of plaster tumbled poetically from the ceiling,

  here dost thou hail from?’ Will said as he led them up a spiral staircase.

  ‘We live in London,’ Oskar answered.

  ‘Ah, such times I have spent in our fair capital,’ Will said dreamily. ‘Do you know that they used to stage my plays there for thousands?’

  ‘Yes, because they still—’ Tilly began.

  ‘And even Good Queen Bess used to come and favour us with her presence,’ Will continued, lost in his memories and entirely ignoring Tilly’s reply. ‘They were the days of heady joy and those I long to return to. And now I rot here, constrained within these crumbling walls.’

  ‘You can’t even bookwander?’ Oskar asked.

  ‘Alas, no,’ Will said. ‘There is no way at all to leave this cursèd place save in our own imaginations.’

  ‘So, you just sit here and complain and have arguments?’ Tilly said.

  ‘Do you think I should do otherwise?’ He stared down at her.

  ‘Actually, yes I do,’ she said, trying to sound braver than she felt about disagreeing with Shakespeare. ‘I think you should help us, for one. What was the point of sending us a map?’

  ‘It was the good lady who sent that forth, I am sure,’ Will said. ‘Not I. If I were to have my say … Ah, here comes Jane. You would do well to be polite and charming to her, for her tongue is sharp and I do not like to be on the wrong side of it.’

  A woman in a neat, floral, empire-line dress with a lace trim was approaching down the corridor. When she saw them, she stopped and bobbed a curtsy.

  ‘Jane,’ said Will, folding himself into an elaborate bow. ‘Art thou well? The day is fine, is it not?’

  ‘It is not so fine to my eyes,’ the woman said, with a sigh.

  ‘Oh, Jane, you and your wit!’ Will said, laughing awkwardly, and blushing a little.

  ‘If you see that as wit, I should think I will avoid your plays,’ she said. ‘Now, who are our guests?’

  ‘I’m Tilly,’ Tilly said.

  ‘And I’m Oskar.’

  ‘My name is Jane,’ the woman said. ‘Jane Austen.’

  ‘My mum loves you,’ Tilly said nervously, feeling as though she were meeting a celebrity, which she supposed she was.

  ‘How lovely,’ Jane said, clearly pleased. ‘Always cheering to know one’s words are still read. I struggled to find success while I was truly alive, but I am glad that people have found comfort and enjoyment in my books since.’

  ‘Yes, very much so,’ Tilly reassured her.

  ‘Miss Artemis knows much of the world outside the Archive. However, she says too much knowledge of how our work fares suits us ill,’ continued Jane. ‘But I doubt her motivations, would you not agree, sir?’

  ‘I would,’ Will said. ‘Most vehemently.’

  ‘Now, if you will excuse me,’ Jane said. ‘I have been practising my French, and Alexandre and I have a bet running as to how much whisky Ernest has drunk today.’

  ‘Isn’t she glorious
?’ Will said, watching her walk away. ‘Now, I believe I cannot put the task at hand off any further. It is, I assume, the reason as to why the lady Artemis bade me accompany you. Her motivations are more transparent than she believes. I think I shall regret asking the question, but will press on regardless. Tell me why you have come. But I shall not be able to assist you – know that before you speak.’

  ‘It’s the British Underlibrary,’ Tilly started.

  ‘It’s been taken over by this creepy brother and sister who are binding all the books so no one can bookwander without their permission,’ Oskar went on.

  ‘And they don’t want children to be able to bookwander at all,’ Tilly finished.

  ‘People have tried worse,’ Will said. ‘And people have tried much the same, over and over – where is the imagination? ’Tis ever power or immortality.’

  ‘They want both,’ said Oskar.

  ‘They so often do.’ Will nodded.

  ‘So, what do we do about it?’ Tilly persisted.

  ‘Oh, if you wait long enough, they will wear themselves out, or die in some sort of contrivance of their own making,’ said Will. ‘There are tomes and tomes in the Archive that tell this same story over and over, as many times as you would care to read it.’

  ‘But what about now?’ Tilly said, starting to feel more angry than disappointed.

  ‘We are all but errant ink splotches on the pages of history,’ Will said. ‘Except for myself and the others here naturally. And look where that has got us. This too shall pass, I promise you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tilly said, ‘but I’m going to have to respectfully disagree with you.’

  ‘Me too,’ Oskar said, folding his arms.

  ‘I mean, it’s just not good enough,’ Tilly went on. ‘Where would the world be if everyone just sat back and said, “Oh, this too shall pass? No one would have invented anything, or travelled anywhere, or written anything. Did you write your plays because you didn’t care?’