This is Part 2 of an unrecorded “Round and Round” story. The bookstore and its unusual staff are dealing with the arrival of an unexpected, potentially dangerous, remarkably helpful new occupant—a BWCA.

Check out Part 1 here.

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That night, Mathilda grumbled.

If you can’t imagine how a cat grumbles, that is completely understandable. It is somewhere between a purr and a growl. Suffice it to say that she was not pleased.

“Do not put my bed there. There will be a draft,” she texted once the laptop had been opened and set on the kitchen counter.

“Not there, either. Maybe by the toaster. At least I will have a view of your gardens, which, I must say, need some tending. Perhaps the BWCA can come here and help out. It is annoying being forced out of the bookstore. Are you sure Annirosa is correct that dire things would happen if we happened to observe the BWCA when he—or it—comes out at night?”

The bookseller spoke aloud to the cat in reply. “I really have no idea. But she seemed genuinely frightened. Anyway, you’re a magic cat, and you should know these things better than I do. I’m just a humble…”

The cat yowled loudly in interruption of the man’s complaint.

Then the bookseller accommodated her requests.

Setanta thought it was a grand adventure. He padded about the house, smelling every nook and cranny.


When things were settled in, he put a bowl of milk out for Mathilda.

“Setanta, I don’t have any Irish. Scotch or nothing, I’m afraid.”

He poured about a half pint into a cereal bowl. It had a Cheerios logo. He liked old logos from things familiar in his youth.

“No rain water or branch water, either. I don’t waste money on plastic bottles of—wherever the hell that water comes from. San Pellegrino? It’s a bit fizzy, but if you let it sit a bit, the fizz will fade.”

Setanta likely weighed 220 pounds, so a half pint for the evening wasn’t excessive. Plus, he was a magic beast and impervious to everything except embarrassment. That made him baleful.

He let out a loud sigh and thumped down onto the terracotta tile floor, legs splayed.

“That will cool him down,” the bookseller thought. “That floor sure dates the place.” Terracotta floors were in style when he and Priscilla bought and restored the old house.

“Should I rip this floor up, Setanta?”

He whined softly—embarrassed to be put on the spot.

“Where are the books?” a text from Mathilda dropped in.

He chuckled. “I really hate books.” Then he laughed. “There are two walls of books that run through the den.”

“Hoarder.”

He poured himself two fingers of Midwinter’s Night Dram in a tumbler. He liked it neat.

“I’m going to check on a couple things. You two okay here? You can follow me if you want.”

Mathilda ignored him, concentrating, rather, on the laptop.

Setanta rose and lapped at the Cheerios bowl a few times—careful not to spill a drop. Then he licked at the water and gave off a big wet sneeze.

“You’ve already sniffed out the downstairs. Let’s go up.”

Fortunately, the steps were carpeted. Otherwise, the dog’s footing might have been precarious going up and certainly coming down.

At the landing, the bookseller turned right.

“This is my bedroom. Pretty depressing, isn’t it?”

The hound did a circuit, sniffing everything.

Back in the hallway, the bookseller said, “Those are two spare bedrooms to the left. Nothing to see. Haven’t had a guest in years.”

Setanta turned right and trotted to a closed door at the end of the hallway beyond the steps.

He sat before the door and whimpered.

“I don’t go in there, Setanta. Haven’t for years.”

The dog let out a plaintive whine.

“No. I don’t want to.”

The dog sniffed under the door and wagged his tail. More whining.

“Okay. I’ll let you in. Some good books in there.”

He opened the door. Books covered every piece of furniture that could possibly support them. The books were mostly face out, and they were everywhere.

Everywhere but the bed.

“This was our bedroom. Priscilla and me. She spent her last weeks in that bed. And then she passed away there. I brought her a book every day.”

The dog walked around the room sniffing the books.

“I guess I should start selling these off. Let someone else enjoy them the way she did.”

He went to the copy of The Little Prince. It was one of the last and best books he had given her. It was the signed and limited edition. He picked it up and looked through it. His eyes welled up.

“Why’d you bring me in here, Setanta?”

The dog came over and sat by him. The dog was so large that his head came up to the bookseller’s chest. The dog rested his head against the man. The bookseller scratched behind his ears.

“Thanks, buddy. I’ve been avoiding this too long.”

Then he walked around the room looking at the books and remembering.

“It was so long ago, but right now I can almost feel her here. We were happy a lot—building the bookstore. I just wish… Well, you’re my family now. Do you want to sleep upstairs or down?”

The dog made a sound that made it clear he wanted to go outside first.

They exited the master bedroom, but the bookseller stopped in the hall, turned and went back in. He looked around a bit and gently lifted a book off the top of the dresser. It was propped against the mirror.

“I brought you one book a day when you were sick, Priscilla. I think it’s time I took one a day away. It’ll take a long time, but I think this shrine should go back into the world, where others can find and treasure the books I found for you.”

Then he stepped over to their bed and fluffed up the pillows.

“I miss you, Priscilla. Every book every day for all these years has been part of what we started so long ago. I miss you. Every breath. Every heartbeat… You’ve been watching over me, haven’t you?”

He paused, wondering if there would be a response—a sign.

Then Setanta’s cold nose pushed into the palm of his free hand, breaking his reverie. “Yeah. Let’s go get some fresh air, buddy. The moon is out. I can see it in the eastern window.”

He let the dog lead the way down the steps. He didn’t want to be in front of the beast, who was so awkward in unfamiliar territory.

When they reached the bottom, the bookseller headed for the kitchen, where he set the book down a couple feet from Mathilda. Before they were out the door, she had risen and gone over to rub her cheek against its corner.

The man and the dog stepped out into the night.

Something caught his eye. An enormous owl was perched on the old wooden garage’s roof ridge. The garage had once held a carriage and a couple horses inside. Now it was full of books. Boxes of books to look at when there was time.

“Maybe it’s time to clear that out, too. A ‘book a day,’” he chuckled.

“The books are infinite. A never-ending river flowing through our hands… and paws.” He chuckled again.

Setanta went rustling into the dark.

The bookseller looked up at the owl, who stared back—blinking every ten seconds or so.

“Back again? Or are you always here?”

The bookseller shivered.

“Someone walking on my grave,” he thought matter-of-factly.

He looked around at the chiaroscuro of the backyard in moonlight.

“I let the gardens go, Priscilla,” he whispered aloud. “So many years ago. But you know that. Who would they bloom for, if not for you?”

He heard the big dog rustling closer. Setanta appeared at the far edge of the yard—where the darkness began. He turned and faced the blackness and chuffed at it.

“Something in there, buddy? Not to worry. With the owl watching over us, we are in no danger of being overrun unawares.”

He pulled open the kitchen door, and the golden light from inside poured out, overcoming the first few feet of moonlight.

“I’m going to bed. You going to stay up and work, Mathilda? I can empty a few more boxes of books onto the counter for you to research.”

The cat rose and arched her back acutely. When done stretching, she pushed a book off the short pile nearest the laptop and dexterously opened it to the title page.

“Well, good for you. I can’t look at another book. You staying up, Setanta?”

The dog walked three tight circles on the comforter the man had tossed onto the middle of the kitchen floor, where there was lots of room. Then he sank down and curled up and stared balefully at the bookseller.

“I’ll turn off the light, Mathilda. The gooseneck on the counter and the laptop’s light should be plenty for you to work.”

He trudged up the stairs as he had done for over 40 years now. On the landing he turned and walked to Priscilla’s room.

“Our room, Priscilla. And we have family staying over tonight.”

He stepped in the bedroom and fluffed the pillows once again, not wondering how they’d gotten pressed down and rumpled since he last left the room.

“Just so,” he said, satisfied. “Sweet dreams.”

His night in the old double bed in the guest bedroom was full of dreams and sounds from inside and out.

Odd animal calls outside. The occasional thump and soft whine of the dog when he shifted positions in his sleep.

When the dawn was breaking, he felt a soft thump on the bed. Mathilda had leapt up and was nuzzling his cheek.

“You don’t wanna go outside this early?” he groaned. He started to roll over, but the cat insistently prodded him, no matter how hard he tried to cover up.

So went the first night and morning.

When the three of them got to the bookstore, the walls and rails of the front porch were freshly painted barn red.

“Looks good!” he said to the cat and dog. “I’ve been meaning to do that.”

Mathilda let out a derisive meow.

“Let’s go get the place open. We’ve got books to sell… and buy.”

Inside, the store was immaculate. No errant dust bunny cuddled in any corner. Every book was shelved. The black and white tiles of the floor, bare of any loose books, glowed as if they’d been freshly waxed and polished.

Mathilda leapt up onto the counter and pressed the keys to begin printing email orders. The machine began softly chunka-chunka-chunka-ing sheets of paper into the tray.

There were also five neat stacks of collectible books on the counter for the cat to evaluate.

“Not much for us to do here, Setanta. I’ll turn the open sign around and then we can go out to the shed and haul some boxes in to price. I see with all the neatening and straightening, there are voids on the shelves. A bookshelf that is not full seems sadly neglected.”

The man and the dog headed out the front door. The silver bell above it chimed groggily as if it wasn’t quite awake yet—as if protesting that it was too early for the store to be open, and as if maybe it wasn’t getting much sleep at night.

They crossed the porch through all the “5 for $5” carts. Though often in disarray, this morning the carts were straightened up with books arranged spine out and extra spaces filled with faced-out volumes.

The bookseller went down the porch steps, following Setanta, who leapt off them as if they were a trivial obstacle. Then the man and the dog crossed the asphalt parking lot together.

The bookseller unlocked the shed and noted how neatly all the boxes were stacked.

“It’s like treasure hunting going through the unsorted boxes, isn’t it, Setanta?”

The dog gave a soft but slightly anxious whine. He was bored and wanted something useful to do.

“No fun if someone else is doing all the work—eh, Setanta? Well, the work in an old bookstore like ours is infinite. Not even a BWCA can do all the books in the world—which is what it feels like we have here.”

He heard a scuttling sound at the back of the shed but thought it better not to go searching for its source.

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And so it went for some days. The man, the cat and the dog would leave at closing and return the next morning to find all manner of repairs and improvements.

The customers were pleased. Some of the old-time regulars were astonished.

“I thought you were slowing down, but the place looks amazing. I hope this doesn’t mean your prices will be going up.”

Even his old scout, Root Stocky, had trouble conveying his usual cynicism.

“If you can afford all this paintin’ and repairs and improvements, you should be able to pay me more for the books I bring.”

“Well, Root, sales aren’t booming and we’re still getting more books than we sell. What do you have today?”

“Per-fessor’s library. It’ll be ten loads afore I get the place cleared. The heirs want them books out so’s they can sell the old manse. I’ll be workin’ nights and weekends for a bit.”

“Makes you cut back on the tipple, eh?”

“That ain’t funny. Books are mostly scholarly, but not too dry, I think.”

Two mornings later, the man, the cat and the dog drove in and were astonished to see Root’s old truck lying in a hundred pieces in the parking lot in front of the porch. It had been completely dismantled.

On the porch, all the carts were toppled over and books were spilled everywhere. They parked, got out and marveled at the scene.

There was a faint crying coming from behind the bookstore. “What’s that?” the bookseller asked aloud.

Setanta went galloping around the building. The bookseller and the cat hustled after him. When they got around the building, the dog was seated at the foot of a giant oak tree. His nose was pointing upward.

“Is that Root?”

Indeed it was. When they got closer, they saw the man straddling a thick tree limb about 20 feet up.

“Is that you, Root?”

“Get a ladder and get me down! I been up here all night. My legs hurt and I got to…”

“I’ll be right back.”

The bookseller hurried to the shed and got the ladder out. He put it into the van and drove across the back lot to the forest.

Both the cat and the dog were sitting at the base of the tree, looking up at the helpless man.

“Here! This can get up to you. Can you get on it? I’ll steady it. If not, I can call the fire department.”

“Don’t do that. I don’t want no one seein’ me this aways.”

Slowly, awkwardly and painfully, the man made his way down, rung by rung. When he got to the ground, he had to steady himself against the tree trunk.

“Root! Your pants and shirt are on backwards. And your shoes are on the wrong feet!”

“Hold on. I gotta go behind this here tree a bit.”

He made his way around the other side of the giant oak, and when he returned, his clothes were on in the normal fashion—more or less. The pants and shirt were torn and tattered. The soles of the shoes were split away and flopped as he walked.

“What were you doing up there, Root?”

“This little man. I almost hit him drivin’ in with a load o’ books. He were ugly. Plug ugly. Greasy long hair. Beady eyes. Pointy ears. I got out to say sorry and the thing began cursin’ me in some language I can’t unnerstan.”

“He… it… starts jumpin’ up and down, wavin’ its arms, yellin’, and afore I know’d it, he had me spinnin’ around. When I got my senses back, I was up that tree with my clothes all askew.”

“Anything hurt?”

“Jes my pride. And wardrobe. Lookit me. He ruined my clothes.”

Root stood back and turned to show off the damage.

“Then he… it stood at the base of the tree sayin’ awful things. Ugly little man. Skinny. Bushy eyebrows. Greasy hair all matted down. Bony knees. Pale thin legs. He wore rags. Did I tell you he got pointy ears with tufts of hair stickin’ up the tops?”

“What time was it?”

“‘Round midnight, I think. I’ze gonna drop off some boxes from that big estate. He jes ran outta nowhere with a armload a books near as tall as hisself. He dropped ‘em.”

“I said I’ze sorry, but he’d have none of that. Run aroun’ like a banshee yellin’ and cursin’ and wailin’. Pulled the books outta my truck and spread ‘em all over. Then he… it started tearin’ apart my truck piece by piece. I couldn’t do nothin’ but watch. Then he leapt onto the porch and over the railin’ even in one hop. Started spinnin’ the carts and books went flyin’ off everywhere.”

“Did it go inside?”

“Not that I saw. He seen me again and that’s when it attacked me!”

“Attacked?”

“Never touched me. Jes came up to me and talk a whirlwind. Had me spinnin’ like a top. And Then I’ze up that tree.”

“We better get you inside. Want coffee? I have some old work clothes that might fit you. And boots.”

They headed back to the front of the bookshop. On the porch, they had to pick their way through the fallen books.

“Setanta, can you start on these? We have to open in an hour unless… unless there are problems inside.”

He unlocked the door and opened it. The little bell made a shivery ting-a-ling, as if it was frightened.

The three of them leaned in, expecting the worst. But nothing was amiss.

Crossing to the sales counter, the bookseller looked down the aisles he passed.

“There’s books on the floor! Like always! But I don’t see any damage”

As if in response, they heard a big book fall somewhere back down the history aisle.

The bookseller started making coffee in the nook behind the counter.

“Did he just run off, Root?”

“He jes yelled and cursed in lots of languages I couldn’t understand. Then I guess he got bored lookin’ at me in the tree and screamed ‘I’m goin’ where I’ll be appreciated and ain’t never comin’ back!’”

“Sounds like you got rid of our BWCA, Root. Thank you.”

“How much you gonna pay me for them books he spread all over the parkin’ lot?”

“I’ll come out and help you pick them up. Not sure what to do about your truck. I was never any good at mechanics… or puzzles.”

“Maybe my insurance…”

“You know, I’ll miss how neat and tidy this place got. I wonder if Setanta and Mathilda can maintain it.”

The cat yowled derisively from its perch atop the counter in front of the laptop.

“Guess not. Business as usual, then.”