July/August 2009

  Twelve-year-old Emily hobbled down the stairs, rubbing her tired hazel eyes. She collapsed onto a chair in the breakfast room, clutching a book in her hand. “How was The Lake?” an old man asked, nodding toward the book. Wispy gray hair adorned the sides and back of his head like a garland, but the top was smooth and shiny as a crystal ball. Holding back a yawn, Emily swept a lock of reddish-brown hair out of her face and replied, “It was really good, Grandpa. It doesn’t have a lot of suspense or action in it, but it was really descriptive. I could picture myself right on the lake in the story.” “I can tell you liked it, Emily, or else you would not have stayed up all night to finish it,” Emily’s grandfather, Mr. Larson, said, chuckling. Mr. Larson owned a little library on Main Street, and his granddaughter enjoyed previewing books before he placed them on his shelves. Mr. Larson called this job a “book tester.” “Is it really good for Emily’s health to stay up so late reading these books?” questioned Emily’s mother, her pretty brownish-green eyes the exact image of Emily’s. “Of course it’s good for her!” Mr. Larson exclaimed. “Reading is very good for your soul.” Frowning, Emily’s mother poured a bowl of cereal for her daughter and handed it to her. “I got a new shipment of books yesterday, Emily,” Mr. Larson said excitedly. Emily suddenly perked up and her eyes sparkled like diamonds. Her cheeks, dusted with freckles like cinnamon sprinkles, glowed with excitement. Wiry, leafy vines began to grow from the pages, coiling around each other like a snake “Really?” she asked excitedly. “May I test them out?” “Of course,” Mr. Larson promised. “The box of books is at the library. We’ll go right after you finish your breakfast.” Cramming large spoonfuls of Cheerios into her mouth, Emily said through her bites, “I’ll be done in five minutes.” *          *          * Emily and her grandfather were walking hand in hand down the sidewalk. Orange, red, and yellow leaves twirled in the chilly November breeze like beautiful ballerinas. Emily’s mittened hand covered her icy nose as they briskly traipsed through the streets until they reached Mr. Larson’s Library. Unlocking the glass door, Mr. Larson swung it open and ushered Emily into the building. The cozy, one-room library was filled with hundreds of books on beautiful, smooth oak shelves. Behind the counter sat a large cardboard box. Emily imagined herself riffling through the pages of each one, smelling the crisp scent of brand-new books. “Pull out the scissors from the desk drawer, Emily, so we can open this,” Mr. Larson said, kneeling down beside the box. Pulling open the drawer, Emily’s hands closed around the scissors. Then she saw it. It was a stunning, maroon leather-bound book with gold lettering on the cover. The pages did not look new, for they were torn in some spots, yellowed, and smelled musty. The title was simply The Story. Emily thought she had never seen a more beautiful book. “I’ve never seen this book in your library before. May I preview it?” she asked her grandfather hopefully. His faint eyebrows frowned in worry. “Pay no mind to it,” Mr. Larson said. “It’s just an old magic book.” “It’s a magic book?” breathed Emily. “Oh, Grandpa! Please let me read it!” “Magic books can be very dangerous,” cautioned Mr. Larson. “I cannot allow any harm to come upon my only grandchild.” There was a slight warmness in his voice, but at the same time Emily heard an authoritative strictness in it, too, so she didn’t say another word about The Story. *          *          * That night, Emily settled down in her bed to read the pile of books she had chosen from the box at her grandfather’s library. The small tower included novels from her favorite author, chapter books from budding writers, and so on. But none of those interested her, for underneath the heap of books sat The Story. It had taken some careful maneuvering to sneak it into her selection of books, but she had succeeded, and as she opened up The Story, the trouble she had gone to seemed worth it. The Story was the most amazing book she had ever read. Somehow, it combined all styles of writing: fiction, drama, comedy, and more, into one pleasing paragraph after another. She devoured the thick book, and soon forgot where she was. The way the words were woven together and the way the author described settings and characters were magical, but the true magic of the book was not yet revealed to her. *          *          * Her lamp glowed softly like a firefly, penetrating the pitch-black night outside. Rain pelted down on the roof and the harsh wind whipped the tree limbs around, the boughs making a scraping noise against the window. Eerie shadows from the gnarled, clawing arms of trees cast menacing silhouettes on the walls. It was midnight, and Emily had fallen asleep on her bed, her auburn hair spread out on the soft pillow. The Story sat beside her, the light shining on its pages. This is where the magic began. Wiry, leafy vines began to grow from the pages, coiling around each other like a snake. They climbed up the walls, cloaking the white paint in dark green masses. More plants, including exotic flowers and tiny saplings, began to sprout from the pages, crowding to move out of The Story and into the real world. But plants were only the beginning of the problem. The array of botany was followed by various species of animals, including lions, tigers, and even a few monkeys. By this point, Emily could not have stayed asleep with the grunts, roars, and other noises that filled the air. When she awoke, her mouth dropped open and her face went pale as she saw what was before her. Her eyes swept the room, looking for the