Owain Part 1 (Round and Round Part 46)

This is Round and Round Part 46. The stories revolve around a weird bookshop and the people (and animals) who work and shop there. 

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In a small city, on a small planet, third from a small, insignificant sun, there was a small bookshop. 

In the scheme of things, everything about it was small.

The “scheme of things” was the vast universe. A vast universe that was perhaps only one of thousands of millions of other universes.

But that is too great a concept to consider.

And, really, one universe at a time is plenty. More than plenty.

This bookshop had existed for many years. A long time.

But in the scheme of things, a mere blink.

Actually, far less. A fraction of a blink. A minuscule fraction.

But consider the acorn. Consider that a great oak that grows from such a small seed.

(Fairies need great oaks in which to live. The question may be posed, “Does the oak need the fairies, or do the fairies need the oak?” But fairies live in another universe almost entirely, and rarely do the bookshop’s universe and the fairies’ universe coexist in the same space and time. It is all very confusing, so let us just try to wrap our heads around one universe at a time.)

The bookshop.

On the outskirts of everything. Outside the big, big city. The most powerful city in the world. Outside the outskirts of the little city of which it is a part. A fringe place. Beloved by the handful of humans who had stumbled upon it (and sometimes into it) for two score and four years.

But, to some, the bookshop was a big place. Millions of books. So many working parts.

To one, the bookshop was the center of the universe. An egotistical thought. A fantasy.

But in this big little bookshop, insignificant in its region, less significant in its country, much less in its hemisphere…

…In this big little bookshop, there was a cluttered office (where a befuddled bookseller would sometimes wander). In this cluttered office, there was a desk. On the wall before the desk, there was a cork message board. And hanging on the cork message board, there was a ring.

This ring was of great weight. If its true weight were realized, it would pull down the office wall, the bookshop, and the building, and fall through the earth until… until there was no place left to fall.

Such big things are difficult to contemplate.

Let us, rather, consider a simpler thing. The bookshop and the millions of books gathered inside it.

Or simpler yet, the bookseller who was a kind of shepherd to those millions. Tasked with keeping them dry and in every other way protected from the elements, which sometimes raged outside the bookstore’s walls.

(As for the forces that raged beyond the walls and skies and clouds, see the paragraph above about fairies and oaks and acorns…)

The bookseller, therefore, had a monumental task. But in the scheme of things…

Have you ever tried to shepherd one dog? One cat? A half dozen cats and dogs? Ten? One hundred? Things become more complex as the number of digits increase.

The bookseller was thinking big thoughts like these one chilly autumn evening. He was standing on the large wooden porch outside the front door of the bookshop that seemed so big until he turned and gazed upward at the starry sky.

“I will never get there,” he thought. “When I was a boy, I was sure I would travel to the stars. Too late. Too late. And too far away.”

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That Christmas was over, there could be no doubt. Neither a flash of tinsel nor a crinkle of colored paper nor a twist of red or green ribbon remained in any nook of the old bookstore. The brown wreath made of woven wine vines and assorted dead pine cones had been lifted off its hook under the gable of the front porch and been boxed and set on a top shelf in the storeroom. Next to it, in a box marked boldly “Xmas,” the old crèche was packed. The figures were carefully wrapped in tissue paper. They rested inside the manger made of wood and moss. 

The old crèche had been old when the bookseller was a little boy. His mother had let him unpack it and set it up on the walnut chest in the living room. The figures were heavy. Most certainly cast in plaster and painted by an Italian hand in the 19th century. The ox and the ass and the lambs. Mary, Joseph, the three kings, and the shepherd with his crook each had a place in or near the manger. But, of course, the baby Jesus on his bed of straw would be handed to his mother. She would put it away until Christmas Eve, when she would give it to the little boy to place between the adoring Madonna and Joseph.

Yes, any thoughts of next Christmas would be ten months away.

It had been a happy Christmas. Annirosa and Althea had both returned.

“The baby snallygasters fledged,” was all Althea would say about her extended absence. Annirosa had stated that the latest conclave had ended and that she had resigned her position at the head of the dais.

Even Barbara had flown in and made an appearance.

“I have brought pfeffernüsse,” she stated matter-of-factly, setting down a big basket woven out of willow wands. “The pecans in them are from the southern border. It gives me pleasure to harvest them. When I was a little girl, we had a small grove of the nut trees on our farm in New Germany.”

“New Germany? Where is that?”

“‘When was that?’ would be more apt,” she replied and said no more. “Now, put some milk on the stove to warm while I go look for some books to take along when I return to the ramparts. Dark forces are stirring beyond the walls out in the wasteland. I must return and stand guard. There are not many of us left, you know. Each of us must take longer and longer shifts.”

With that, she turned and disappeared down an aisle.

“You’d think she could find books anywhere in the world she goes,” the bookseller thought.

“Or beyond,” Annirosa said aloud, finishing the man’s thought. “But there is something different about the finds here; here at the center of things.”

“Center of things? Here? This is the quietest part of the quietest town in the quietest state in the quietest region in the…”

“Yes. As I said. At the center of things. It is where the heart is that all is protected and safe. We expend a great deal of effort to keep it so. Now, I hope you have some fresh milk.”

“Always. Mathilda insists on it. A bowl in the morning when I arrive. Another in the evening after all is closed and shuttered.”

“Quite so. And is there a clean pot?”

“I’ll go check.” By which the bookseller meant he would slip into the pantry and quickly wash the dishes. He’d been busy with the holidays, and the dog and cat were of no help in scullery work. He reached in the basket and extracted a cookie before he left the counter. A step away, he took a bite. The powdered sugar dissolved like a cloud of sweet crystals in his mouth. Taking in a breath, he nearly choked on the white powder that leapt off the baked nugget. The flavor flowed through him, and he had to pause to catch his breath before he took a second step. It was then his teeth closed upon the nuts inside the baked good. With that, his second step seemed to take him into an enchanted forest. Spanish moss hung in long curtains from the trees’ branches—white oaks, certainly, but different. Silver oaks? And pecans—a vast grove of them, their bark a golden brown. A bird took flight high above, and in its wake, a contrail of silver sparks fell and dissipated before reaching the forest floor.

“Oh!” he said aloud. “That’s some cookie!” But then, his senses returned him to the bookstore, and he continued toward his chore.

When he returned to the front, he asked Althea, “Do you think she’d give me the recipe?”

“Impossible,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“Well, that’s not very friendly. Nor is it in the holiday spirit. Mmm, post-holiday spirit. I’d sign a non-disclosure agreement if she wanted.”

Althea guffawed. (He’d missed her snarky insults and deprecating humor for all the months she’d been away. Months? It was years.) “No. I mean impossible. The ingredients cannot be acquired here.”

“Well, I can order anything on the internet.”

“I mean, many of these ingredients cannot be ordered anywhere; anywhere on this sphere.”

He laughed. “Cookies from another dimension, eh? Well, they do have quite a kick.”

He reached for another but then stayed his hand. He wasn’t sure he could handle a second.

As he crossed the threshold into the little pantry, the thought occurred to him. “Those were pecan trees—like the grove my dad’s family had in Texas all those years ago. I was just a little kid the last time I saw it…” he thought with a sigh. “Grandma would always send a ten-pound sack of pecans to us at Christmas time. My Alabama mom called the nuts ‘pee cans.’ My Texas grandmother, ‘peh khans.’ I had a pretentious neighbor long ago who called them ‘peckins.’  Texas seems like such an exotic place to a kid living in the suburbs in western New York. Cowboys, armadillos, horses, rattlesnakes, roadrunners… jackalopes!” He chuckled aloud.

The bookseller had seen his first jackalope as a seven-year-old boy, when his father had pulled into a hill country bar—or roadhouse. In a glass display above the bar, there was a stuffed jackrabbit with antelope horns mounted on its lead—the jackalope in all its glory. His grandmother had been so horrified that she wouldn’t get out of the car.

“Lips that touch liquor shall not touch mine!”

When the bookseller got into the pantry, it was spotless. The sink was empty, the counters polished and shining—everything in its place.

“A place for everything and everything in its place,” the bookseller’s mother used to say. “I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Three women suddenly visiting, and each with special… ‘talents?’”

He pulled out a large saucepan from the oak cabinet and poured five cups of milk into it. Mathilda, the cat, would want her milk heated, and Setanta, the enormous red Irish Wolfhound, wouldn’t be interested. “He can join us in celebration with a little bowl of Irish whiskey to lap up.”

Then Althea and Annirosa appeared in the pantry and began rooting around for platters and bowls.

“What are we doing?”

“Having a party,” Annirosa said.

“Or a wake,” Althea added.

“Is that what brought you back?” the bookseller asked.

Before they could answer, Setanta came in, and the room got much smaller. Mathilda slipped in on cat’s paws and began doing figure eights around and between the bookseller’s legs.

“Mom used to say the kitchen was always the most popular part of home.”

He dipped a finger into the milk to test the temperature.

“Not too hot, or you will get a skin upon it,” Althea cautioned.

Then they heard a thump out on the sales counter, and Barbara squeezed into the pantry.

“I found a couple dozen interesting books. The stock here is improving. Who is your buyer now?” Barbara asked, putting her finds on the counter.

“Me,” the bookseller replied. “The staff currently is just me, Mathilda and Setanta.”

“Look at all the food! Is this a late lunch or an early dinner?”

“Tea, I should say.”

“Should I close the store? Turn the open sign around? The only place for all these plates is out on the counter, and if a customer comes in…”

“We can invite them to join us. Watch that milk. It will soon boil,” Barbara cautioned.

And so there was an impromptu feast and reunion of the six of them. They stood and laughed and chatted and reminisced around the venerable old sales counter.

Though it should have happened sooner, the bookseller was finally struck by the appearance of the three women.

“Why are you here?” he asked, interrupting the party.

The three women stared at him in silence.

“I mean, all at once the three of you reappear… here… in the bookstore. Is it a coincidence? Or some anniversary I’m unaware of?”

“I have been around,” Barbara said. “Making sure all was safe and secure.”

“And I have found homes for the baby snallygasters. All 23 fledged and healthy and growing. We saved the species!” Althea said proudly.

“I have not been away so long. I told you about the meetings…” Annirosa added.

Setanta came and pressed his head against the bookseller’s hip. A clear signal he wanted his neck rubbed. Mathilda rose and silently walked across the counter and rubbed her cheek against his hand, which held the mug of cocoa.

“I mean… it’s been years. No calls or even texts or emails. Not even a snail mail. No Merry Christmases or Happy New Years. I’ve run this store alone—but for the assistance of Mathilda and Setanta. And… alone…” he added, crossing out of the festive mood and into a far distant introspective one. “It’s no holiday or anniversary… I mean, I’m thrilled to see you… Don’t get me wrong… It’s just that…”

“Owain,” Barbara stated softly. “Owain is unwell.”

Owain. Pronounced “own” but with a little aspirata between the “W” and “N.” Memories flashed in the bookseller’s mind’s eye. A giant of a man. Bearded. A twinkle in his eye behind a usually severe countenance. He had met the great man when he was a young bookseller. He had been flattered that such an icon of old books would stop in and actually chat with him and peruse his stacks.

“He must… he must be…”

“Much older than that,” Barbara finished his thought.

Owain… visions flooded the bookseller’s mind.

He was king; a king of booksellers. Majestically tall with long shanks and beard. Intimidating until he smiled approval.

It was a different world then. Most communication was done on paper. Letters typed or handwritten. Postcards. Paper catalogs. Paper stamps you would lick the back of to moisten them so they’d adhere. Phone calls could be expensive if they weren’t local. Plus verbal arrangements could be remembered differently by one or both of the parties involved.

Money was usually checks. Sometimes cash.

Owain’s shop was lined with shelves of glittering jewels. He simply had no book that wasn’t bright and perfect. If necessary, the book could have faults hidden by a new leather and gilt binding or preserved in a bespoke satin- or silk-covered slipcase.

Did you know books can be jewels? Jewels can’t be books, however. 

“I felt so unworthy in his presence. It was like being amongst the crown jewels in the Tower of London,” the bookseller thought. “I was scruffy, underdressed, and certainly unqualified to be there. There was no question of buying anything. There was no money in old books, as so many friends and family cautioned me. I was too shy to speak much and certainly not to ask to inspect anything.”

The man had been quite a mentor in his early times as a bookseller. Then the old man disappeared for many years. Retired, some said.

“I wonder what became of his books?” he thought.

“He was promoted, actually,” Barbara said, reading his thoughts. “And the books he kept, his core collection, may become available. He has not decided whether to disperse them or not.”

That snapped him out of his reverie. He wasn’t sure he liked having his mind opened like a window.

He felt he must have had a stupefied demeanor.

“Were you somewhere else?” Barbara inquired, breaking the spell.

“Another time and place. How ill is he?”

“He has made it clear he wants no visitors. He wants to be remembered as he was. He is not alone. There is always family about,” Althea spoke softly.

There was a pause, and Barbara answered the unasked question.

“Perhaps some weeks, but it could be any day, as well.”

“And with Owain’s passing, some things need to be decided,” Althea added.

“And we actually missed Mathilda and the Setanta and the bookstore,” Barbara added.

Annirosa quickly added, “And you, of course.”

“Well, thanks.”

“And you have not needed us, any of us, for quite some time.”

“Ummm, it would be nice to have someone, umm… human around. With arms and legs and a voice. Maybe we could go to a restaurant. I think there are still some around.”

“Have you tried a ‘help wanted’ ad?” Barbara suggested helpfully.

“It doesn’t really work like that anymore, Barbara. Most people don’t get actual newspapers. And, anyway, the requirements to work here are not the sort of things that someone coming in off the street would have.”

“But there are more modern ways to find help. The internet and such,” Althea added.

“Well, I’ve tried that, and I haven’t been able to get past the issue of working with, and being subordinate to, a cat and a dog. Perhaps they believe their potential employer is mad.”

Then to shake off the aura of sadness, they began eating and drinking and talking of lighter things. The improvised feast was astonishing in its variety and piquancy.

The plates rattled beneath silverware. Wine appeared from somewhere and toasts promised good things.

The women laughed and then began to chant softly.

“A dirge? Old English?” the bookseller wondered.

Then things quieted. The feast was over.

Mathilda threw up her right hind leg and began grooming it.

Setanta prostrated himself upon the floor, his bowl of Irish whiskey emptied, and stared balefully up at the group.

As if on cue, Althea and Annirosa began clearing things up.

Barbara stepped over to her stacks of books piled farther down the counter. She produced some heavy jute twine from somewhere in the folds of her woolen skirt and began tying the books into parcels.

The bookseller alone amongst the crowd slipped into a reverie.

Owain was dying, and a last link to his beginnings would soon be gone.

A memory rose and filled his mind.

He was in his dining room. Decades ago. Seated at the head was Owain. The bookseller was seated across the corner of the old cherry table. It was just the two of them.

“You’ve done well,” the tall man said. “Look at all you’ve got. “

“Empty,” was all he could reply. “It all means nothing.”

He looked up at Owain. Larger than life in his vision. Changed. He now wore a crown and ermine robes.

“I’ve spent my life trying to live up to others. And all I see is how far short I’ve fallen.”

“None of us know where we stand until we are measured at the end, measured by the only thing that counts.”

He pressed his fists onto the sales counter, and a deep, groaning sob came out of him. Barbara sidled up next to him and put her arm around his shoulder. She pulled him close, and a wave of comfort flowed over him.

The warmth of her touch pulled him back to the shop. Back to the present. The last bookstore he would ever know. Wood and paper and cloth; some leather, ink. Words. Millions of words.

“And none are my own.”

“Look around you. These millions would not be here but for you and your stubbornness,” she answered.

“Tenacity,” Althea added.

“And we, too, would not be here. We have been called to you all these times, all these years.”

“And a cat and a dog,” he said, mocking himself.

“Poetry and drama.”

“‘In Flanders fields the poppies blow…’”

A dark blue buckram book was on the counter a few feet away. It was awaiting cataloging. A first edition now over a century old.

“Where would this be if not for you?” Barbara raised the book up like a talisman. 

“Where would we be? And Mathilda and Setanta. We are like you—we need this world of paper and ink and bindings.”

“We lived and loved…”

“And we could not be here, in this world. Annirosa, Althea, me, this magical cat, and supernatural dog,” Barbara whispered.

“And I would not be here but for Owain.”

“He will see us if you come.”

“Yes. We should go visit… while we can.” 

“There is the matter of the crown and scepter.”

“And he has some advice for you.”

“From the precipice, he would say his piece.”

“Is that why I have lingered, trudged step by step, why I have lifted and opened book after book after book?”

“They would not let you go,” the three women chanted in unison. “Nor would we.”

And he was comforted.

“I’ve often wondered if he had written, ‘Where the poppies grow,’ would it still be a masterpiece? ‘Poppies blow…’ What did he mean?”

“You can ask him when the time comes. Perhaps he will draft a manuscript copy for you as a souvenir.”

“We should leave, Barbara.”

“Annirosa, close the shop. Turn the sign round and put out the lights.”

“I will put down a saucer of milk and a bowl of Irish.”

“The hour is getting late.”

“We must fly.”