This is Round and Round Part 47, one in a series of stories that revolve around a weird bookshop and the people (and animals) who work and shop there.

Read Owain Part 1 (Round and Round Part 46) here.

Read more Round and Round stories here.

Barbara touched his arm, and then the four of them were standing before two massive carven oak doors. Long black wrought iron hinges held them up. The hinges were attached with square black nails as big as the distal joint on the bookseller’s thumb.

There had been no flash or whirling whoosh. The four of them had been outside the bookshop’s door and now they were here. The bookseller didn’t even remember blinking.

“How do you do that?” he asked incredulously.

“Years of practice and a vial of quickgolden.”

“Quickgolden?”

“It is similar to quicksilver but is more efficacious. Compare it to the value of gold versus silver, only multiply that a hundred thousand times. That is the scale of its properties, which help slip us through space.”

“Space?”

“And time, when it is required.”

“I’ve never heard of…”

“Why would you? It does not exist in your world.”

“I cannot reach the bell,” Althea said. (She was a bit vertically challenged.)

Indeed, there was a silver bell about a foot in diameter and about seven feet up. It was attached to the door jamb by an ornate gooseneck holder, which appeared to grow out of the wood. Indeed, though it was made of silver, the Celtic design appeared alive.

But there was no need to ring the bell. There was a scraping noise, and the door cracked open a bit. Then it stopped.

A woman’s voice spoke from the other side of the door, saying, “Would you help? Pull on the iron ring handle while I push from my side.” 

The bookseller and Annirosa grasped the wrought iron ring that hung from a gold lion’s head attached to the door.

“On three. One. Two. THREE!” he said, and they pulled.

The door groaned and scraped, but only budged a few inches.

Barbara, who was standing back looking bemused, said, “Let me try.”

She approached and grasped the handle. She turned it right three times. Then left five times. Then she raised the ring even with the lion’s nose, and then she flung the ring downward. The lion’s eyes widened in surprise as the ring crashed upon the door plate, which was also his mouth.

The door slowly swung open.

“Quickgolden?” the bookseller inquired.

She nodded. “As it slides us through time and space. It can open other things recalcitrant, as well. I suppose you would call it a kind of cosmic lubricant.”

Owain’s daughter, Isbetha, stood before them on the threshold. “We almost never use the front door. For obvious reasons. The kitchen door around the back is much more agreeable.”

“I felt we should make an entrance on such a weighty occasion. You look positively regal, Isbetha. Have you grown?“ 

“It has been eleven years, Barbara. And yes, I am still growing. Seven feet, seven inches. It must be the water here.”

Despite her verticality, she was perfectly proportioned. 

“She is my age and still growing,” the bookseller couldn’t help thinking. “She’d be great in the shop. Top shelves and all…”

“You couldn’t afford me,” Betha replied to his unspoken comment. “Come, let us go inside.”

They all stepped into the foyer. Looking up (and up and up), they saw the ceiling was vaulted. Ribbed timber arches rose around the sides, creating a circular dome. At its apex, it was perhaps 57 feet high. 

The visitors all exhaled a sigh at the sight. 

Ahead was an oaken stairway. Its treads were perhaps 11 feet across. Its steps were about 15 inches high. Its top disappeared into a mezzanine. 

“How many…”

“Eighty-seven steps,” Isbetha answered. “It is the devil taking trays up to Owain. He refuses to move down here into one of the great rooms.”

“He loves his own bed. It is where he wants it to happen,” Barbara said knowingly.

Isbetha bent her head and choked back a short sob. “I am so glad you came. He brightened greatly when he heard you were to visit.”

“But we decided just moments ago,” the bookseller said, speaking as much to himself as to the others.

“He knew,” the daughter said. “And he said he would like to see you first,” she continued, indicating toward the bookseller. “Alone. Go on up and turn to the right. His is the seventh door. We will adjourn to the kitchen and make us all some tea to take up when you two are through discussing… the future.”

They turned and headed around the stairs to the passageway that opened behind it, leaving the bookseller alone. 

The bookseller moved forward, and at the base of the stairway, he looked up, and up, and up. It was a daunting climb. 

“If I don’t start, I’ll never get up there.”

And up he went. He would pause every seventh step to catch his breath and rest his thighs, which took the brunt of the labor. When he finally reached the top, the muscles in his legs burned. 

As he sat on the top step for a moment, recovering, he looked down to the distant foyer, and then up again. He saw that the mezzanine was lined with bookshelves. This level was oval in shape, perhaps 83 feet long and 47 feet wide. The shelves that rose from floor to ceiling were 13 feet high and curved along the entire perimeter. They were punctuated by 13 doors. Owain’s door, the seventh going clockwise, was directly across from him. 

When he had caught his breath, he swiveled on his bottom and pushed himself up onto his legs. They were still a bit wobbly. 

“She said right, but turning left will get me there in less time.”

The mezzanine was 17 feet deep from the railing to the base of the bookcases. Every 19 feet or so, there was a large wooden and leather chair. The big nails that held the red leather in place glowed like gold. As he passed them, he noted that each had an animal carved at the ends of its arms. A lion, fox, bear, wolf, eagle. Then he was at the door. He knocked gently. 

The wood was so heavy that his knuckles created no sound. More force was needed. He raised his fist and struck as hard as he dared without risking injury.

The door swung open very slowly of its own accord. The bookseller crossed the threshold and moved toward the enormous bed that dominated the room. It was a canopy bed, and the curtains were pulled back. The head and foot and bedposts had heads carved on them. He recognized some. Explorers and kings and saints. 

“You made it,” said Owain’s deep voice, flowing to him.

“Those steps, were they some kind of test?”

Owain laughed heartily, and the sound seemed to shake the room. But then he began coughing. The rasping sounded like the scrape of a shovel across stone. When it subsided, the great man said, “I never had a problem with them… when my legs could hold me up. What are you standing over there for? Waiting for an invitation? Come here where I can see you better.”

The bookseller crossed the room and raised himself onto a velvet-covered settee at the edge of the bed. His feet dangled several inches above the floor.

“The only good thing about this is all the fawning I receive. I hate fawning, and the girls know it, but they can’t help themselves. I think they enjoy it. It is a game we play. I let them please me so they are pleased.”

“You’re lucky to have the five of them. Are any of them living here?”

“They take turns.”

There was a pause while the uncomfortable fact hovered between them.

“Owain, I came to see you.”

“I know. And I am glad at the sight of you.”

“I brought you a book.” The bookseller held out a worn copy of the Oxford Book of English Poetry. “It is my own copy. It was all I could think of. It has a lot of dog ears. I never do that to other books, but it is how I find my favorites in this one.”

“You shouldn’t part with such a treasure.”

“I came to see you, not for advice, but because…”

“I know. We can talk about that later. The time is not so short as that. I’ve never died before. I hope I’m doing it correctly.”

“You’ve always been so good with people. And friends. And family.”

“At the end, we are alone. But only for a while.”

“I am falling. I’ve fallen. I’ve fallen into books and solitude.”

“A book is a dream. A friend. A world you can fall into. It is permitted. Expected of some.”

“I’m alone but for the dog and the cat.”

“And the books.”

“Only the books. I’ve left friends and family. They are so far away. Far in time; a distant past. Or… they have gone on ahead. So many have gone… ahead.”

“You have the three muses.”

“They’re not real. Words on a page. Voices only I can see and hear.”

“Like a book.”

“Like a book. If I fall any deeper, I don’t know if I can find my way out.”

“You can always close a book and set it aside. Or you can keep going until you come out the other side.”

“Other side?”

“When a book is finished, do you think that is the end of the story? No. The story doesn’t end on the last page. Written or unwritten, the characters’ existence continues. Living or dead, the story goes on and on.”

There was a pause while this all sunk in. They’d often conversed in puzzles.

“Now before all the women come up and begin fawning—I hate fawning—we need to talk. How is the bookshop?”

“It has expanded several times since you last visited.”

“I’ve heard. Are you making any money?”

“Enough to buy more books. There’s not much overhead, and the staff works for food and board.”

“Mathilda and Setanta. I’d very much like to see them again.”

“I’m sure Barbara could arrange it.”

A pause. 

“Does it…”

“Hurt? Not much. Except when the coughing breaks a rib.”

“Barbara can’t prescribe anything?”

“Oh, she has. When I take the pills, I go on long trips and see many old and departed friends and family. But usually I’d rather suffer and remain in the here and now.”

Owain’s long legs stretched beneath the bedclothes. Two enormous hairy feet popped up beyond the end. The comforter was pulled up to his neck. His grey beard—stained with the remains of his once-red hair—spread longer than 17 inches atop the bedding. His eyes were sunken into the wrinkled sockets, but his irises were still the lavender blue they’d always been. His black pupils had a twinkle, as if sparks still flew in them. The sclera was veined with red shaped like lightning strikes. 

“Can I get you anything now? Whisky?”

“How I’d love a dram. I’m afraid those days are gone. The stuff triggers the coughing, and then… well, the pain and the mess are not worth the pleasure.”

He continued, saying, “My advice? There are far worse plunges one could take than the descent into an abyss of constantly changing books.”

“But…”

“Don’t interrupt. When you are here, on your back, and there’s nowhere to go—nowhere you’re able to go—you can open a book and fly. FLY, I tell you! I can fly!”

They both paused. Owain’s eyes widened. He grimaced.

“Damn! Books still stir me up. You asked if you could get me anything. Go out the door and turn left. Seven paces, well, maybe more like eleven for you. The fifth shelf up. You’ll see it bound in red leather. Blood red. The elegy of Beowulf. Bring it in here.”

The bookseller slipped off the settee and left the room. After about ten paces, he stopped and scanned the fifth shelf. He slipped the book out and carried it back to the bedroom. 

He stood by the bed and asked Owain if he’d like him to read it aloud.

“I’ve never seen it in quarto before. It’s pretty heavy.”

“It’s the only one.”

The bookseller opened it to the title page.

“Not published… it—it is a manuscript.”

“Aye. An anonymous hand, but you’ll recognize the artist.”

The bookseller fanned a few pages.

“Vellum… Doré? Doré never illustrated Beowulf.”

“He did this one. For my great-grandfather, Alai’n.”

He handed the book to Owain.

“Oof, too heavy. Read it to me. The page is marked with the red silk ribbon.”

The bookseller scooted up onto the settee, wiggled himself into a comfortable position, and began:

I have guided my people
for fifty winters—there was no folk-king,
of any of those sitting on our borders,
that dared to meet me with war-friends,
menace us with terror. In my home I waited
my allotted time, kept my own well,
neither sought contrived conflicts
nor swore many oaths in unrighteousness.
I can rejoice in all these things, sickened
with this mortal wound, because the Wielder of Men
has no need to blame me for a murderous bale
against my kindred, when my life vanishes
from this body.

 “Aye. Does it make sense?” Owain asked.

“Not the bit about contrived conflicts. Fifty winters. Is that you?”

“Aye.” He sighed heavily. At the sigh’s end, his lungs rattled like the purring of a cat. 

“I’ve known you forty.”

“You were a feisty youth. Full of righteous indignations right, left and center.”

“I could be a jerk,” he paused. “Still can.”

“You’ve mellowed.”

“Worn down by time and hard labor, but the major blows came from people. Crazy customers and weird helpers.”

“You’ve had some doozies! Remember that punk kid? Coonan, was it?” Owain started laughing, and the bookseller was worried it might trigger a coughing fit. 

“The goof hated me, the company, and the books, but he wouldn’t leave. He was there for twenty years off and on.”

“I never understood why you kept him.”

“Family ties. No relation to me. And I always hoped he would fail to return from one of his many, many sojourns. Quirky sojourns. And… he frightened me. Us. A crazy one can do great damage—not just to me, but to those I care about and the works I built.”

“Like a bad penny…”

“Yes. Certainly. We would call him that. ‘BP.’ And he worked like a demon when he was there. Strange bird. Perhaps possessed.”

“And your troll?”

“Why’d you remind me? Horrid creature. Ugly outside. But uglier inside.”

“Well, you had your triumph there.”

“A fight I’d rather not have fought. It consumed a chunk of my life.”

“Well, I had my share, as well. Goes with the territory. But you never had a traitor like I had.”

“Never to be seen again.”

“Yes. I always suspected some guardian angel whisked the fellow off to a desert island—for his good and mine. Oh, the war stories we could tell. The foes, both human and immortal, who didn’t like our work. But still, we did pretty well—well by the books we rescued and the homes we found for them.”

“Why do we recall the worst and too often take for granted the best?”

“Pain can provide a stronger mnemonic than pleasure.” Owain coughed softly a few times and paused.

“Is he dozing?” the bookseller thought.

“No! Not asleep. Remembering. And you interrupted it!” he groused.

“I didn’t say a…”

“I know you well enough that your thoughts speak volumes. Now! Why are you here? Beside the obvious.”

“Obviously I wanted to see you; to see if there was anything I could do for you.”

“Barbara brought you here for a reason, you know. And not just to say goodbye,” Owain said. “She hinted there was more than one reason.”

“I’ve been having doubts.”

“You were always having doubts. All those times I had to talk you off the cliff. It got tedious sometimes.”

“I can imagine. But this is different. I’ve done this all my life, and I don’t know if I can do it anymore.”

There was a tapping at the door. Barbara entered, followed by Althea and Annirosa. Isbetha stuck her head in and then drew the door closed, remaining without.

“You have no choice, I’m afraid,” Barbara said matter-of-factly. “When Owain departs, his void must be filled. And you are the chosen one.”

“Chose—“ he broke off. “I didn’t choose nothin’.”

“Come now, such language is not seemly from one who will bear the responsibility for all the books everywhere.”

“I didn’t come here to take on more. One reason I wanted to see Owain was to see how I could slow down, downsize, maybe take an extended break. Open a grass shack beach bar on an island and read what I want—or not read at all and not care about any books but the handful of old mysteries I brought there… And not so many titles! I read thousands of titles every day. I’m so tired of titles.”

“You can’t,” Owain said matter-of-factly. “The line can’t be broken.”

“What line? I never signed up for any line or contract or commitment.”

They talked late into the night. The bookseller was mostly reticent, as if he were a prisoner listening to his judges decide his fate. Then, one by one, they bade Owain and his children goodnight. 

First Althea and then Annirosa crossed the threshold out into the hall. Barbara raised Owain’s left hand and held it in both of hers. The bookseller thought he heard her speak softly to Owain, saying “Peace.” Then she, too, went out to the hall. Finally, the bookseller rose to leave. He slid off the footstool and dropped onto the floor. It took four paces to get to the head of the bed. There, he put a hand on the great man’s shoulder. 

Owain turned his head toward him and, with half-open eyes, whispered, “Get some rest. You look dreadful—as if the weight of all the books in the world were on your back.”

“I… I… Goodnight, Owain.” And he crossed the room and was out the door. The three women were just outside the door. Their heads were bent in close, and they whispered in hushed tones. They stopped when they saw him.

“Well?” they spoke in unison.

“He told me I look terrible and that the weight of all the books in the world was upon me.”

“You do.” Althea said.

“And it is, I am afraid,” said Barbara.

“You should go to bed,” said Annirosa. “Your room is the fifth on the left.”

“Or the eighth if you go right.”

“What are you three up to?”

“We will go down to the dining room and count votes.”

“Votes.”

“11,251 thus far.”

“Plus two from Mathilda and Setanta.”

“How did you… never mind.”

“They said the shop had its best day in months.”

“That figures.”

“Old Jonas came in and finally bought the Hakluyt.”

“It’s missing three and a half volumes.”

“They said he knows that and will expect you to turn them up. Until then, he will just read around the gaps.”

“Well, I am beat. Tired and sore to the core. What’s the vote about?”

“You,” Barbara replied. “But do not worry. There is not much choice. None, actually.”

“Not much choice,” he echoed. He turned and started to the left, stopped and turned to the right. “Maybe I’ll find something to read along the way.” His feet dragged on the woven runner with its horses and knights and shields and spears. They appeared to be readying themselves for battle against the army woven round to the left. 

“A runner that is ten feet wide.” He chuckled to himself. “Owain… I always felt so small around him. Insignificant, too. Though he always treated me as an equal. Even when I was a foolish, headstrong young bookseller.”

He took a few steps.

“Now I’m an old foolish bookseller. Er… a foolish old…”

Along the way, he noticed a blood red Morocco quarto. It was sticking out two inches from the rest of the shelf. As he got closer, he swore it moved out another inch.

“Anxious to be read,” he said. He plucked it from the shelf.

He got to his room and crossed to the bed. Its surface was chest high. He lifted the book up onto it and then clambered up with some difficulty.

Though it was a twin bed, he could not reach the far side. Nor, stretched at his full length, could the tips of his fingers or his toes find the ends of the down-filled mattress.

He twisted and stretched for the wrought iron gooseneck lamp on the nightstand. It was indeed shaped like a true goose neck and head. When his hand got within a foot of it, it came on. A beam of light poured from the goose’s open mouth. The light turned its neck of its own volition and shone upon his book as if it knew its duty. 

“I sing of arms and the man…” 

If he moved or tilted the book, the lamplight followed.

He read and read, though no time passed. 

Soon he knew why this book had chosen him.

“Pietas.” He recalled the word from his college days, when first he read Virgil. 

Duty.

And then he understood. Whatever was happening was an extension. The next story. The sequel to his life thus far. 

“Owain said the book never ends. I wonder if I will be a good one, if my story will be worthy to join the rest?”

The pages flew, and then the book was done with him. 

And then he understood. The choice was no choice, but a mandate. Had he chosen some kind of free will, he would have been cast into the abyss of forgetfulness and forgottenness. 

Then sleep came softly, like a mist pouring in through open windows.

His dreams formed a narrative. Linear memories of his life in books. Faces long forgotten appeared upon his dream stage. They’d play their role and then move on.

He awoke to find the room aglow with dawn’s first soft light.

He turned on his side to look out the window. It was open a few inches, and three birds were perched on the sill, looking at him quizzically. A titmouse, a nuthatch and a chickadee.

“Well, good morning. Are you my wake-up call?”

The three chortled their signature songs in unison, and surprisingly, the three were in harmony.

Then they turned and fluttered away into the morning. 

He slid off the bed, careful not to twist a sleepy ankle. 

“I wonder what the day will bring,” he thought. “I wonder if the store will open on time? Will we be busy?”

Then he remembered where he was. 

Then he remembered the dream he’d had.

“Everyone was there. The good, the bad, the crazy… lots of crazy. And she was there. I’ve gotten over her, except when I haven’t. And the books. The books I sold I wish I hadn’t. The books I didn’t buy that were gone when I returned for them. And my books. I dreamed all of them. Each. And all the books in the hands of women and men who had come through the door, ringing the silver bell above it upon entering and leaving; who had arrived empty-handed and left with memories yet to be made in their hands.”

He washed and dressed quickly and went out into the hall.

Owain’s door was open. He walked to it, taking the long way around. He did not wish to get there. And then he was. He stepped to the threshold and looked in. The bed was empty. The Beowulf propped upon the pillows.

“NO! I didn’t miss it…”

“No. You have not.”

It was Barbara. She had appeared at his shoulder.

“Come. Let us go outside.”