This is Part 3 of a Christmas experience in the weird bookstore. Start by reading Part 1 and Part 2.

---

Christmas Day in the bookshop had a mystical quality about it.

It wasn’t just that the building was an island in a vast sea of snow just now.

The magic of that day seemed to transport the bookshop to another place. A timeless place.

And the shop was closed. It only closed on Christmas and Thanksgiving.

The teakettle started screaming, and the bookseller stopped rolling boxes onto the porch to attend to it.

He poured the boiling water over the strainer and brought the mug out to the counter to let it steep.

Setanta was still diligently packing Befana’s newly Italian books.

“I don’t know how she will pick them up in all this snow. It is starting to drift up to the rails in some places. But it is so cold that nothing will get wet. I’ve already taken 53 boxes out, and it looks like you’re only halfway done, Setanta.”

The dog looked up at him balefully, as if he were being criticized.

“You’re doing great! What do you want for breakfast?”

While the dog and cat could “talk” non-verbally, they chose not to except in extremis. They preferred to keep their thoughts to themselves.

The dog set a children’s book into a box and gave a pathetic whine. Drool formed a puddle on the floor below his chin.

The bookseller replied, “Got it!”

“Mathilda, the usual?”

The cat glanced over from the printer and condescended to give the slightest of nods. She preferred Genova brand tinned tuna.

The day became dreamy for the bookseller. At one point, he wandered into aisles, meandering through the vast shop aimlessly. He put a forefinger out to one side and dragged it along the book spines in the hardcover literature section as he walked down a long monolith of shelves, making a “taktaktaktaktak” sound. 

He had done that a lifetime ago, he recalled.

Things went a bit out of focus around the edges, like a vignette in old-time photos.

He felt as though he was going down a never-ending canyon. Walls of books rose on either side.

“I’m surrounded by giants,” he thought. “Every one of these books is loaded with energy and ideas. They’re just waiting to be opened.”

Setanta came clicking down the aisle far behind him, disturbing his reverie. The dog had an order form in his mouth. He was pulling online orders that Mathilda had printed.

“Got all of Befana’s books boxed now? We don’t want to raise her ire. My shin still hurts. What book are you looking for?”

He pulled the order from the dog’s mouth. The paper was perfectly dry. Setanta had a talent for not drooling on bookish things, but he had no control of his slobber in any other place.

“What did we sell?” He put his reading glasses on. “Bradbury. Something Wicked This Way Comes. Let’s go look, Setanta. Do we keep him in lit or sci-fi? Likely some in both.”

He wandered over a couple aisles. “Here it is.”

“Sixth printing. Nice jacket. Wow! It is striking. Makes you understand why dust jackets are so important to a first or early edition. Imagine this book naked. I loved Bradbury as a teen. He’s as much a poet as a novelist and short story writer. I remember this book reads more like an epic poem than a fantasy or horror story. Sometimes impenetrable in the metaphors and similes…”

“Erp?”

“Oh! You have more orders to pull. Here you go. Let me know if you need any more help.” He chuckled.

The dog took the book in his mouth and trotted toward the front. He moved like a thoroughbred.

Then the limited “necessary work” was almost finished for Christmas day. All 113 of Befana’s boxes were stacked neatly on the porch.

On one trip out with boxes, the bookseller discovered a package had been dropped off while he had been loading more boxes inside. He looked around. The deep snow was trackless in all directions.

“Must’ve been brought by air mail.” He chuckled.

He took it inside and cut it open. Inside the cardboard box was a bundle of old-fashioned green and white checked cloth tied together at the top with ribbon. He could smell what was inside.

Cookies!

The box had been addressed to him at the bookshop. The return address had simply been: “Althea, The West.”

Atop the bundle was a small handwritten note. It read:

Merry Christmas
-Althea

He sighed, grimaced a bit, and set the note aside.

“Very warm sentiment.”

He lifted the bundle out, set it on the counter, and untied it.

“Chocolate chip!”

He retrieved a cookie and bit into it.

“And they’re still warm!”

He mused a bit, looking around the front end of the shop.

“Althea… It’s been over two years. I wonder how many eggs the snallygaster had. They’ve got to be hatched and maturing now. How long do they need tending?” He sighed. “I guess she’s not coming back.”

After another cookie, he rolled the last four boxes of newly Italian kids books out onto the porch. He rolled it to the far side of the stacks of boxes. He noticed a sizable bump in the snow off to one side.

“The Renault. I guess they only needed it to get the shovels in.”

It was time to relax. The bookseller went into his office and sat on the couch. He had his Christmas present—Shakespeare’s first folio—under his arm. He spent a happy hour leafing through it.

“Imagine these stories—lost forever. Makes you wonder at other lost masterpieces. Misplaced manuscripts. Undiscovered writers. Like Gray’s Elegy: ‘Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest…’”

Every Christmas morning, it seemed like the day would stretch on forever. But as the day waned, it would seem to go faster. It started to end too quickly.

The bookseller retrieved the big map of Fairyland from his desk and took it to the sofa. There, he unrolled it a bit and studied it awhile.

“I’d like to travel more.”

He looked at the tiny names and places on the map.

“How amazing it would be to see The Beach of Pearls.”

“And, look, here is Never-Never Land.”

“And here Doth Puck Herald the Queen Titania…”

He sighed and let the map roll up on itself.

His mind went a little blank, and he stared across the office. The gold ring pinned upon the wall glowed with its own light. From somewhere deep inside him, a bit of memory stood up.

“Golden Apples of the Sun. Silver Apples of the Moon,” he thought.

Those words caught him unaware.

“What’s that about? I didn’t see that on the map.”

He gently laid the rolled-up map atop the back of the sofa. Then he shook the cobwebs of fantasy from his mind and returned to his own time and place.

He let out a deep sigh. “Well, I go thousands of places every day. I’m a bookseller.”

Setanta was lying at his feet. Suddenly, Setanta’s ears pricked up, and he gave a soft whine.

“What is it, boy? Hear something?”

The dog dropped his bone, rose, and trotted out of the office. The bookseller got up and followed him. Mathilda was on the counter, pecking away at the laptop. She was cataloging a stack of books the dog had set out for her.

“Is there someone at the door?” he wondered.

There was a shadow upon the glass of the front door.

“Knock. Knock.”

He opened the door. The bell trilled a sleepy “White Christmas.”

It was a tall, person-shaped bundle of clothes. And it was covered in snow.

“Come in. Come in.”

The bundle stepped in. It stomped its feet a bit, and a little storm of snow floated down from its head, shoulders, arms and legs.

Setanta was sitting on his haunches, eyeing the figure curiously.

The bundle began to unwrap itself, peeling off layers of snow-laden clothes. First, a scarf that must have been twelve feet long. Then a coat. Then a hat.

It was a young man. Just a couple inches taller than the bookseller.

“Well, hullo.”

“Hello. I am here about your advertisement.”

“Advertisement?”

“Yes. ‘Help wanted in an old bookshop. Must love old books, dogs and cats. And hard work.’ Is the position still available?”

“Must be one of Annirosa’s ads,” the bookseller thought.

“Did you see it online?” he asked.

“Online? No. I heard about it… through the grapevine.”

“Well, come in and warm up. I didn’t hear you drive up.”

“I walked.”

The bookseller looked out the still-open door and saw a single long trail of tracks in the snow. They came up from the forest. That forest was wilderness for miles.

The young man stomped his feet to get the snow off his boots. Then he bent and untied them. They were old-fashioned boots with at least 43 pairs of brass eyelets going up the front of the quarters.

“Can I get you something to eat or drink? It’s getting late in the day. The sun will be going down soon.”

“No, thank you. I just wanted to put in my application—in case someone else was applying. I did not want any competition to slip in a few steps ahead of me.”

“I see. Well, no one else has been here on Christmas Day with three feet of fresh snow outside.”

“I am so glad to hear that. I came a long way.”

“You must be cold. Can I get you something warm to drink? Cocoa?”

“If it is Annirosa’s cocoa, then sure. But I am not cold. I bundled up. It was a long slog, though. I am a bit tired. May I sit for a while—while you interview me?”

“Sure. Take this chair. I’ll start the cocoa.”

The young man settled onto the cushioned chair they kept near the counter for older customers who may need to get off their feet for a bit. Browsing the “miles of aisles” in the old bookshop could get to be a bit much for those whose souls are still stronger than their legs.

The bookseller went off to prepare the cocoa. Mathilda and Setanta both stared at the young man with their heads cocked. Both animals had their heads cocked at 31 degrees counterclockwise. The young man turned and met their gaze. He cocked his head 31 degrees clockwise.

At that, Setanta gave a big sneeze. Mathilda flicked her tail straight up and leapt from the counter onto the shelf that held the pillow. There, she perched and stared down at the scene. She seemed to be assessing whether or not she approved of what was taking place.

The bookseller returned with two mugs of cocoa and set them on the counter. He stepped a little down an aisle and returned with a step stool. He set that across from the young man and sat upon it.

“Well, let’s start at the beginning. Where did you hear about the job here?”

“Like I said, through the grapevine… I don’t recall exactly where. This cocoa is wonderful. Annirosa has a secret ingredient.”

“You know Annirosa?”

“No. Just her cocoa.”

“What’s the secret ingredient?”

“Well, if I said, it would not be secret. You would not want an employee who could not be trusted to keep confidences.”

The bookseller studied the young man’s face. He couldn’t be much more than 18 years old. But there was something very familiar about his countenance. He could not quite place it.

“And you decided to walk here on Christmas Day after a big snow?”

“I did not wish to miss this opportunity. May I show you some of my qualifications?”

“Certainly.”

The young man slipped his phone out of his pocket and brought up some images.

“Here. This is my collection. Swipe left.”

The bookseller took the phone and went through the images.

“Very impressive. Latin. German. Classics. History. Looks like you know your books.”

“Thank you. I have worked hard building the collection. I am looking forward to developing it further.”

“Is that why you want to work here? To get books?”

“Well, I do hope there is an employee discount,” he said, craning his head to peer down the nearest aisle. “But, really, I am looking for adventure. I have heard that this bookstore offers both the opportunity to learn about books as well as the occasional… adventure.”

“Where did you hear about that?”

“Online… somewhere.”

“A job site?”

“No. It was a fantasy site.”

“And you decided to take a walk here and apply in person—on Christmas Day.”

“Well, yes. You see, I had no Christmas plans. It is just me. I need the job. Actually, I need the occupation more than compensation.”

“And where did you come from?”

“I have a map.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a map, and unfolded it. It was hand-drawn. “I am quite good with maps, by the way.”

“Coincidences…” the bookseller thought.

He took the map from the young man and rotated it left and then right, getting oriented.

“Oh. Here we are,” he said, putting his finger on the spot where the bookstore was. “And I recognize the river and South Mountain. But this forest you’ve drawn here. I don’t recognize parts of it.”

“Well, that is because parts of it change—pretty often. But this line shows the path I took. Here is where I started.”

The young man pressed a forefinger to a spot on the western edge of the vague forest. It was a black spot on the map. It was captioned with a name.

“Dark Hollow. I’ve never heard of… waaaaiiiiiiiiit.”

The word “wait” stretched out into one very long word.

“I recognize enough of this geography to know that area is about 20 miles away.”

“Twenty-three miles.”

“You walked 23 miles in the snow to get here today?”

“A little more. More like 29 miles. It is not a straight line from Dark Hollow to this bookstore. There are some obstacles. A mountain. Some impenetrable forest. A dead zone.”

“Waaaiiiiit…” the word stretched out enough to occupy half a line.

“Oh! Look at the time! I should be heading back.”

“Waiiiit…”

“Do I get the job, or are you holding more interviews?”

“Wait…” This time, the word was its normal length.

The young man bent and began pulling on his very tall boots with the 43 pairs of eyelets rising from ankle to knee on each.

“Wait?!” he repeated, somewhat aghast. “It’s almost dark out. I’ll be fine to get back, of course. I’ll just follow the tracks I made coming here. But did I get the job? I could start tomorrow morning. And I understand the position would be probationary.”

Suddenly, there was a great wind outside. All the windows went white with blowing snow.

“What was that?” the bookseller asked in alarm, thinking aloud. 

“Pickup, I think.”

“Aren’t you hungry? I have some cans of soup…”

The young man had his second boot pulled on and was cinching the laces tight.

“Thank you, no. I have trail food in my pockets.”

The young man rose and made to exit.

“So, do you want me to return tomorrow? I can help clear the parking lot. I bet the book store will be busy. After Christmas, people go out and shop for themselves.”

The bookseller groaned. “Oh, the snow. How will I ever get the place open tomorrow? It’s just me and the dog and cat.”

“And me. If you want.”

“Well, sure. Is nine too early? We open at ten.”

“Nine it is.”

All four headed out to the porch.

All the boxes were gone! The porch was swept clear. Indeed, there was an old witch’s broom propped against the railing at the far end.

And beyond… beyond, the entire parking lot was swept clear, as well.

“How…”

“Befana, I bet. That broom is a telltale. She likes sweeping things this time of year—clearing off last year’s problems.”

“That tiny old woman?”

“A bit crusty, but with a heart of gold. Well, see you in the morning!”

The young man swung himself over the rail and headed for the woods.

“Wait! Your name?”

“Galah! That’s the short version.”

And then he was in the woods, paralleling the foot trail that had brought him there.

The bookseller headed back inside. Mathilda and Setanta padded behind him.

“Whew! Christmas night,” the bookseller thought. “I should be having turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy… But it has been a good day. And I think maybe my family just got a little bigger.”

Out in the depths of the bookstore, he heard a couple books fall from shelves somewhere in the dark.

“Sounds like they approve,” the bookseller said in a low voice.

He heard a plow scraping the pavement on the street out front.

“I should go home. I need a change of clothes. I can cook something decent out of the freezer. Better than canned soup, anyway,” he mused. “Yep. It would be nice to spend the night in my own bed.”

The neighbor kid always shoveled his walk and short driveway—on retainer.

“You guys want to come with me?”

He was met with blank stares.

“Ah, maybe you wanna get a head start on tomorrow’s orders.”

Setanta gave a soft whine of assent. Mathilda hopped up onto the counter and trotted over to the laptop.

He pulled on his boots, his coats and his gloves and walked out.

A faint dot high above was crossing the full moon. He heard a faint “Ho! Ho! Ho!” from the sky.

“How was the first run, Tom—I mean, Nick?” the bookseller thought.

He crossed the porch and went down the steps. The book van had been swept clear, as well. He pulled himself up and into it and switched it on. It roared to life.

“I should get a new van,” he thought. The van sputtered as if it understood the thought. “I mean, a second van—to take the pressure off this one.”

He trudged up the front steps and went into his home. It felt dark and cold and hollow. He turned the thermostat up from 53 to 67.

“I’ll splurge tonight.”

He went to the fridge and pulled a foil-wrapped slab from the freezer.

“Hmmm… feels like lasagna,” he thought, hefting it. “Shouldn’t take long to defrost in the microwave.”

He put his phone into the charger on the kitchen counter. He pushed a few buttons on the screen, and soon Pandora was playing Christmas Carols.

“Still a few hours of Christmas left.”

While his dinner was melting, he wandered from empty room to empty room.

“Time to start clearing some of this stuff out. I’ll never look through these books.”

Having piles of books around used to give him comfort. Now some were feeling more like a burden.

There were three stacks of books piled in the center of the old cherry dining room table. He hadn’t eaten dinner on the table for decades. The books were the ones he had given Priscilla all those years ago. When they learned her time was ending, he began bringing home a book treasure for her each day. He had brought them down here from her bedroom when she… left.

“A book a day,” he whispered. “Merry Christmas, Priscilla. I would so much like to see her again. I wonder if the ring…”

The timer went off in the kitchen, and he headed back there to his feast. He looked at the wine rack and pulled out a bottle. It had a bright red wax seal dripping to the top of its neck. It looked like blood—or lava. The wine was Lacryma Christi—the “Tears of Christ.” He had gotten it from a winery on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius.

He pulled a linen napkin from a drawer.

“What am I saving them for?”

He hoisted himself onto a stool at the counter and began his Christmas dinner.

His phone began playing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

“…You can count on me… I’ll be home for Christmas if only in my dreams…”

“Dreams,” he mused.

He stayed up ’til midnight, sipping the tears of blood.

“Might as well see the full day out.”

The last minutes of Christmas were approaching.

“Christmas Week. And New Year’s. That was such a fun time when I was young. My, but those days went so fast!”

Midnight came. There were no clocks chiming twelve strokes. He reached over and pushed “stop” on the phone. The house went silent.

“There are still adventures to be had,” he thought. “We’ll see how the new kid works out. Maybe I could get away for a week once he’s trained and has Annirosa to supervise him.”

He went up to bed and heard his own, tired footsteps on the stairs, feeling like his feet belonged to somebody else.

He burrowed under the bedclothes, pulling them over his shoulders and up to his neck.

“It was a good Christmas,” he thought. “Memorable. And tomorrow there will be new books coming in, I bet. Books I’ve never seen before. The stuff dreams are made of.”