This is Round and Round Part 49, one in a series of stories that revolve around a weird bookshop and the people (and animals) who work and shop there. This new edition of the Christmas stories is an anthology containing Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3, originally published in December 2023.

So, to bring you up to speed, you should know the following:

The bookseller had spent many years in the bookshop, and had lived through many happy, sad, triumphant, unsuccessful and weird times. He had learned never to be surprised by events at the bookshop. For although the place appeared for all intents and purposes to be a normal used bookshop, things happened or visited or were foisted upon it that were definitely weird.

Mathilda is an excellent bibliographer and cataloger. Much of the store’s online sales success can be attributed to her computer skills, speed and accuracy. She “knows books.” Also, she is a cat.

Setanta is of Irish descent. He is a giant dog. Perhaps a proto-Wolfhound. The story goes that he was exiled from Ireland for so-called “crimes” (more likely mistakes caused by clumsiness or inattention). He is an excellent shelver, for although he often drools, he never drools on books. Standing on his hind legs, he can reach the highest shelves—eight feet.

Annirosa appeared as if by magic when her predecessor, Althea, had to depart to help birth and raise the last of the world’s snallygasters. Annirosa had frequent absences to meet with her order. She would never expand on those meetings, saying simply, “I must fly.”

Those are the cast of regular characters in the following story.

While it may seem too weird to you, the customers of the bookstore did not find anything unusual about the staff. Perhaps they had just gotten used to it over the decades.

Perhaps the clientele was also weird.

Indeed, strange was the usual state of affairs in the bookshop.

Part 1

Christmas was coming in the old bookshop. The bookseller felt as if the holiday just marked the ending to another year.

It wasn’t always like that, though. He once festooned the place with lights and garlands. Christmas music would begin playing the day after Thanksgiving. He would root through the shop searching for holiday themed books to put on display near the front.

Dickens, of course. But after the usual longtime favorites, he would go into the cooking and craft sections for books that would bring more color to the display.

This year, Annirosa decided to take charge. She made a big wreath from pine fronds she cut in the woods that bordered the shop. With wire and intertwining, she created an impressive green circle that was nearly three feet in diameter. She made a big red bow and tied it to the bottom. She hung it on the front door. 

“Come out and look!” she said cheerily. 

When he made no indication of moving from behind the counter, she went back and took him by the sleeve. She led him to the front door, and when she opened it, the little silver bell chimed three notes that could have been the opening of “Good King Wenceslas.” She set him a few feet away and turned him to face the door.

“Well? What do you think?”

“I think it needs to be rotated counterclockwise a few degrees.”

With a bit of a growl, she stepped to it and turned it a bit. Then she returned to his side and crossed her arms and asked, “Now?”

“I suppose customers expect something this time of year. How much did it cost?”

“It didn’t cost you a penny. And I did it on my own time!”

“It is fine. Very festive. Thank you. I’m getting cold. Can we go in now?”

“I’d tell you where you can go with that attitude…” 

“Look. The delivery guy dumped a package and left with no signature again. Dump and depart.”

“It looks like a poster mailer.”

“Did someone here order posters? Maybe Rudolph-themed?”

“I didn’t. Mathilda and Setanta wouldn’t be able to do anything with posters—not having hands and all.”

Mathilda was a cat. Setanta a dog. But both were excellent booksellers and had extraordinary skills beyond. 

The bookseller bent to the wooden porch floor and picked up the mailing tube.

“This is old,” he said. “It’s got a metal screw lid. About 1920s, I’d say.”

“Where’s it from?”

“There’s nothing on it but the shop name and mine. Maybe it’s a bomb.”

“Let’s go inside and open it! I like mysteries. I’ll make us some cocoa.”

“I’m not THAT cold. I’ll make a Keurig. But first we’ve got to get the shop open. I wouldn’t want to disappoint the hordes of book-lovers that will be pulling into the parking lot soon.”

Annirosa opened the door, and the little silver bell above the door trilled three familiar notes that could only be “Jingle Bells.”

Mathilda was perched atop the counter, pecking away at a laptop. Orders were being printed on the shelf below her.

The machine spit them out, making “Ka-chunk! Ka-chunk! Ka-chunk!” sounds.

Setanta ambled over, his nails clicking on the black and white linoleum tiles. When he and the bookseller met, he emitted an enormous sneeze. Dog snot sprayed all over the bookseller’s shoes.

“Well, good morning to you too, Setanta.”

The dog flopped to the floor, blocking the bookseller’s way and looking up at him balefully.

“I stayed late and priced a batch of Irish history. Make yourself useful and go stock it while I wipe off my shoes.”

The dog whined pathetically and didn’t budge.

“Oh! That’s right. You’re still exiled from the Emerald Isle. Something to do with poaching, wasn’t it?”

The dog prostrated himself even more and put his two paws over his face in embarrassment. The pathetic tiny whines contrasted with the enormity of the canid.

The bookseller set the poster tube onto the counter and went into his office. He stepped to the big window that looked onto the parking lot. He reached and turned the “CLOSED” window sign over to “OPEN.”

When he returned to the sales counter, Annirosa was holding the mailing tube close to her eyes as if studying it.

“Can we return it?” the bookseller asked.

“Look at these old stamps. And there’s a postmark. It’s faint, but I read it as ‘December 15, 1923.’” She grinned. “Were you open then?”

“A bit early in the day for insults. Let me see that.”

He took it from her and inspected it.

“It IS addressed to me. But just with the bookshop’s name, city and state. No zip code,” he said.

“Look at the postmark. How old were you in 1923?”

“Mathilda, put a ‘help wanted’ ad on Craig’s List or whatever other ridiculous way we hire nowadays.”

The cat did not look up. She kept pecking away at the laptop, and orders kept spitting out of the printer on the shelf under the counter below her. She emitted a deep rumble that was somewhere between a purr and a growl.

The situation was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. The little silver bell above it seemed to tinkle the first few notes of “The First Noel.” In walked a man bent from the huge velvet sack he had slung over his shoulder. The sack was very worn, but it appeared to once have been dark red. He was wearing big black boots and a voluminous coat, a heavy woolen weave. The coat had a hood that shrouded the man’s face completely. The coat was dusky red.

The man approached the counter, and when he was close, he swung the bag over his shoulder and let it drop on the floor in front of the four speechless booksellers. Out spilled a few dozen books.

The Little Prince. The Littlest Angel. Pooh books. The Wind in the Willows. Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens… 

Setanta rose and sniffed them. 

Annirosa asked, “Are you selling these?”

“Nope. Givin’. Don’t want nuthin’ for ’em.”

“Those look like collectible editions! The jackets are perfect.”

“My own books. Gifts when I was younger. Time to unload ’em. Friend said this was a good place. Want ’em?”

Mathilda leapt off the counter and landed at the man’s feet. She looked up at him from far below, cocked her head, and emitted a deep and rumbling purr.

“We’d really like to evaluate and pay something for them.”

“Don’t have time. Not much time left, I’m told.”

Mathilda was walking figure eights between his boots, rubbing up against him.

“I’m sorry…”

“Nuthin’ to be sorry for. Been here seems like forever. Long enough, I’m feelin’.”

“Can we empty your bag for you?”

“No. You can’t.”

“Can we…”

“Can I just go. ’Nuff left to do ’fore my deadline. Lots of things to deliver.”

With that, he turned and limped toward the front door. His frame was bent as if from great age or fatigue or even pain. Maybe all of them. When he pushed the door open, a strong wind blew in. His hood flew back and a huge mane of white hair was released. It rose and frolicked in the air. The little bell above the door seemed to play notes from “Jingle Bells.”

“Well, that’s the darndest thing… a package mailed to me long before I was born and this old man dumping perfect copies of vintage children’s classics.”

But Annirosa had run through his office and was looking out the front window.

“What’s he driving?” the bookseller called from the counter.

“There’s no one out there. But I thought I saw a shadow move across the lot and into the trees. Like from a cloud.”

Setanta and the bookseller were looking down at the bag. Mathilda was nuzzling its once-red velvet. 

“Well, they can’t stay there. Setanta, empty the rest of the bag and stack the books so I can review them. Don’t get any slobber on them.”

The big dog whined plaintively and gave a great sneeze, and the bookseller’s pants cuff and calf were mottled with white goo. Snuffling, the dog moved to the books cast upon the floor and began picking up one after another—with his mouth. He stacked them gently against the front of the sales counter.

Just then, the front door opened, and the bell tinkled enough notes for everyone to recognize “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.”

“Tom! Tom Hubbard! I haven’t seen you in years. Thought maybe…”

“Maybe I died? Nope. Just slowed to a crawl. Selling off my old stock, but that’s slowed to nothing. Almost. Say… what’s the story on the kid’s books on the floor?”

“Not for sale yet,” the bookseller said. “We are… ummm… just evaluating them for someone.”

“Hmmmm… books like that I might start buying again. It wasn’t that old guy in the big coat, was it? He looked awful familiar—like a bookseller I knew when I was starting out. But he was old then. Real old. And that was fifty-, sixty-some years ago.”

“You saw his face? He had a hood covering it in here.”

“Not exactly, but there was something about him, the entire person, that had to be old Chris.”

“Chris?”

“Chris Nicholas.”

“The antiquarian from the ’50s? I heard stories about him, but he was long gone by the time I started.”

“Chris started in the ’20s—the 1920s—maybe the teens. He was the best non-multigenerational bookseller of the 20th century.”

“You mean like Maggs and Quaritch and all?”

“Yep. He stood alone. But it couldn’t have been him coming out your door. He’d be 120 years old or older. There was always something strange about him. There was always a twinkle in his eye, like he knew something the rest of us didn’t. Fact is, he did. He knew books better than anyone before or since. Can you come out? I brought some bad dead stock for you. I don’t know why I held onto this Galsworthy collection. I invested in it in the ’60s. Guess I hoped eventually he’d come back in vogue.”

“You don’t want me to look at them. It would only be bad news.”

“There’s no one else that would even look at them as bad news. C’mon. I know you. You’re a sucker for signed limiteds in slipcases or clamshells. Even unsellable ones.”

“Ummm…”

“It’s Christmas,” Annirosa whispered into his ear. “Tom was good to you when you were starting out. Go on out. You may be surprised.”

The two old booksellers—one old and the other much older—headed out the front door. The bell above it rung the first notes of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

Mathilda, Setanta and Annirosa looked at one another. Mathilda gave a cat shrug. Setanta a dog shrug. Annirosa shrugged. Then they turned and returned to work. Mathilda printing orders. Setanta removing books from the big once-red velvet sack. Annirosa disappearing into the stacks with a two-wheeled book cart and a sheaf of paper book orders to pull so they could be packed and shipped.

The two men crossed the porch to Tom’s battered old van. It was still running.

“Don’t dare turn it off. Might not start again.”

The rusty once-blue vehicle hissed and rattled, sputtered and groaned. Occasionally it took a deep gasping breath, as if about to expire, and then at the point of death, it roared back to life.

“You should put it out of its misery, Tom.”

“Can’t afford to. I sold a lot of books over the last 60 years, but somehow I just got more books, and the money just turned into more books.”

“Yep. I understand. Story of the old book trade. We all take the V.O.P.”

“V.O.P.?”

“Vow of poverty.”

Over his few decades of bookselling, he had known so many colleagues who lived from book sale to book sale, always putting any money they made into more books. Most lived frugally but were invested in their books and not in “business.” When it came time to dissolve, sometimes their stock was their only asset. 

They stepped to the rear of the van—its motor playing metal music like a far future band. Tom pulled the creaky rear doors open, and the bookseller peered in. The floor of the vehicle was covered with cardboard flats. The flats were filled with early 20th century bindings in perfect condition. 

“Are these ALL Galsworthy?”

“Yep. By or about. And about all the books I have left—at least quality ones.”

The bookseller surveyed the plane of titles, and the van gave a great tubercular “WHEEZE!”

“Tom, I don’t know what to say…”

Galsworthy first editions and signed books had long ago been gold-plated. In what decade had they begun to lose their shine? Sixties? Seventies? Certainly by the ’80s, he was largely ignored in the antiquarian community. 

“Just do what you can. I can’t keep hauling them around. And you’re the only one left who’ll take ’em all at once. Truth is, I need ’em gone.”

He pulled out a handkerchief and coughed into it. Before he quickly folded it over, the bookseller saw a bright crimson stain. Blood.

The bookseller began counting. 

“I wonder if I’ll live long enough to see Galsworthy rediscovered,” the bookseller thought.

He came up with a figure he felt was generous, considering the market.

The van wheezed deeply, and the engine paused for a moment. 

Another moment. 

Another. 

Then it emitted a painful choking noise before roaring back to life. The whole vehicle shuddered in the process.

Tom pulled out his handkerchief and coughed into it again.

The bookseller mentally doubled his offer. Paused. Tripled it.

“Tom was good to me when I was starting out,” he thought. “Gave me credit. Called me into estates—after he’d creamed them. Taught me trade tricks and secrets.” 

The van was pinging and spluttering, gasping and rattling, grinding and growling.

He mentally increased his offer by another factor.

When he opened his mouth, the offer he made was tenfold the original.

Tom looked him in the eye. Were there tears welling up, or was it pain?

“Sold,” he said. “To a good home.”

“I’ll go in and get Annirosa to come out and help us unload. She’s making cocoa if you want to come in for a bit.”

“No. I better get moving before Old Blue quits on me. Besides, I gotta get the grandkids presents. Books for sure. Already got ’em. That’s easy. Been saving ’em aside for years until they were old enough. I guess this is the year. And now I got some money, I can get ’em toys and stuff.”

The bookseller pulled a blank check from his wallet and wrote it out. 

“Is it too late to make part of it cash?”

The bookseller pulled a sheaf of green from his wallet and handed it over with the check. 

“This is a personal gift from me to you. Let’s call it interest on all those times you gave me credit in the early days. I’ll go in and get help. Glad it’s not raining.”

The bookseller crossed the porch. When he opened the front door, the bell chimed “The Holly and the Ivy.” He crossed to the counter.

“Annirosa! Where’s Annirosa?” 

He looked down and saw Setanta surrounded by eleven stacks of books. Each was about three feet high.

“Setanta! What a mess! I only asked you to empty the sack. Where’d these come from? ANNIROSA!”

The dog whined and looked up at him balefully. Mathilda leapt down from the counter high above him and landed between them. She looked at the bookseller defiantly, her hackles raised. Her eyes glowed green with a light from within. 

Setanta stuck his muzzle into the velvet sack and extracted a book. The Wizard of Oz. The sack still bulged as though it was full. 

Annirosa appeared from the stacks.

“Did I hear you scream my name?”

“I did NOT scream.”

“Mathilda?”

The cat strode between her and the bookseller and stared up at him defiantly.

“I… umm… was just in a hurry. Old Tom isn’t well, I think, and I wanted to get his van emptied as fast as possible.”

“Well, that’s different. I’ve told you that you should install a paging system.”

“It’s on the ‘To Do’ list,” he said as the four of them headed out the front door. 

On the porch, they saw the once-blue van’s taillights blink as it came to the parking lot exit. It paused, as if making up its mind which way to turn. It swung a little right and then swayed left. Its rusty bumper scraped the pavement with a screech.

“I hope it doesn’t fall off.”

“Fixing that curb is on your ‘To Do’ list as well, is it not?”

They surveyed the porch floor built of unstained two-by-fours. It was paved with flats of books.

“I don’t think there were this many in Tom’s van. Glad it’s not going to rain. We can bring them in as Mathilda catalogs them.”

The cat emitted a rumbling purr-growl.

So the day began at the old bookstore. 

Two very old visitors. Two very different loads of books. 

Annirosa and the bookseller each carried a flat of books in and set them on the counter. Mathilda leapt up and sashayed past the Galsworthys as if they were beneath her. 

“Wait a minute,” Annirosa said. “Not all of these are Galsworthy. Here’s The Time Machine… and it’s inscribed to Galsworthy from Wells. Here’s Doyle. Sherlock Holmes. Inscribed. And there are more…”

“Tom! I gotta catch him. He might want some of these back.”

“I don’t think so. I think he knew what he was doing, even if you did not.”

Mathilda had wandered back along the counter and was appraising the first two flats. Her whiskers were erect and her ears pricked.

Setanta had flopped to the floor and pushed his muzzle into the velvet bag. 

The bookseller walked to him, knelt, and began scanning the piles of books.

“Why, these are wonderful. Narnia. The Hobbit. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Where did all these come from, Setanta?”

The dog whined softly and pulled a book from the sack. The bookseller reached for it and the dog let him remove it from his mouth. It was completely dry.

“The Little Mermaid. In Danish. It looks like a first.”

“And over here,” Annirosa whispered. “Rackham in vellum. A dozen of them.”

“Well, we can’t leave them here. And this giant velvet sack. It can’t stay here blocking the counter. You were supposed to be emptying it, Setanta.”

The dog emitted a soft, painful “yowl” and flopped his head upon the floor. He opened his eyes and looked balefully up at the bookseller.

“Well, I’ll start by putting this sack in the storeroom. I’ll empty it myself if I have to.”

He bent and grasped the neck of the sack and lifted.

“Ooofff!”

It wouldn’t budge. 

“This weighs a ton!”

And he tugged again. Nothing.

“Wanna give me a hand, Annirosa?”

But she had settled cross-legged on the floor and was looking through the books. 

“Charlotte’s Web. Anne of Green Gables… There’s nothing later than the 1950s. And these all came out of that sack.”

“It doesn’t look any less full. And it certainly weighs a lot. Setanta pulled all these out of here?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Maybe it can’t be emptied.”

“A bottomless sack?”

“Apparently. And each one I’ve looked in has an inscription.”

She held out an early 19th century binding opened to the endpapers. Mathilda leapt down to the floor and stood on her hind legs, her front paws propped on the young woman’s shoulder.

The bookseller leaned down and read aloud.

“Ex Libris. Chris Nicholas.”

It was signed boldly in red ink with a flourish. 

“It’s the Brothers Grimm. First German, I believe,” Annirosa said, getting to the title page. 

Pippi Longstocking. Little Women. Heidi. And all were inscribed by the long-ago bookseller. 

“Okay. Okay. Setanta, stop trying to empty the bag. I believe it might be bottomless. Annirosa, let’s you and I start carrying these stacks into the office. Maybe the two of us can drag the bag in there.” 

A few customers dribbled in and looked oddly at the mess on the floor, but no one commented. The odd bookstore held no surprises because it always held surprises. 

The old bookseller soon found himself spinning around trying to manage things and take care of the customers all at once.

One customer cracked a joke about the trick dog and cat show. Mathilda growled and her tail stood erect, flicking. Setanta just ambled off down the History aisle with a Churchill tome in his mouth. 

A regular commented to Annirosa about the lack of holiday decor.

“He went all out again this year, didn’t he?”

“His heart’s in the right place,” she replied.

Things were in such chaos that he accidentally called Annirosa “Althea.”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he mumbled, shaken. He broke away into his office and closed the door behind him. He stood with his back pressed to the door, his hands holding the doorknob. He looked at the ring upon the wall.

“I could run away,” he thought. Then he shuddered, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “No. They’re my family now.”

He forced a smile on his face and went back out into the shop.

“Time to run a ‘help wanted’ ad on whatever that website is called,” he said as Annirosa was ringing up sales and he was bagging. 

“I have been—for weeks. I think most people are intimidated by this place.”

“Why? If they’ve never been here before…”

“Maybe it’s the line, ‘Must like working with a cat and dog.’ No one takes the job seriously. I could try to reach out her—through Barbara—or other … ‘friends.’”

“No. Things will settle down in a few days when we get this Christmas stuff out of the way. She knows the door is open.”

The day finally wound down. All the Galsworthy and related books were brought inside. The office was a maze of thigh-high stacks of vintage children’s books. 

Mathilda was chewing on her front paws—likely sharpening her claws dulled by pecking away at the laptop keyboard all day.

Setanta was snoring on the floor in front of the counter. Occasionally, he would twitch violently and pantomime hunting in his sleep.

“Probably dreaming of chasing Irish Elk, just like the good old days,” the bookseller said.

“Irish Elk have been extinct for 7,000 years in Ireland. Do you think Setanta has been alive for…”

“No one has said exactly WHEN Setanta was banished, have they?”

“We always thought it was legend.”

Eventually the lights went off and the “OPEN” sign was flipped to “CLOSED.”

“I must leave,” Annirosa told him. “There’s a meeting tonight.”

“Best not to ask what kind of meeting,” the bookseller thought. 

“Let’s go for a walk, Setanta.” 

The dog rose, his tail wagging furiously—thumping against the wooden front of the counter like it was a drum. He made his panting smile and headed quickly for the door, his nails clicking on the linoleum. 

The door was opened to the opening notes of “Silent Night.”

Setanta took off across the wooden porch and crossed the parking lot into the woods. 

The bookseller walked slowly to the front and braced himself, putting both hands on the railing. There was a full moon. When he slowly raised his head to look at it, he said, “What the…?”

A tiny shadow seemed to be moving across the lunar face thousands of feet above. 

He pulled off the reading glasses he had forgotten to remove. When he looked again, there was nothing other than the moon in the sky.

“Dirty eyeglasses,” he said aloud, and he pulled out a shirttail to wipe them on.

Out in the woods, Setanta began howling—baying at the moon.

The bookseller called to him. “C’mon, big guy. You sound like the hound of the Baskervilles, and you know that didn’t turn out well.” 

The night was silent and still as December 22nd turned into the 23rd. Snow started falling, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Setanta came cantering across the parking lot, leaving enormous footprints in the dusting of snow. He leapt onto the porch, skipping all three steps, and sat erect next to the bookseller. His head was level with the man’s collarbone.

“Beautiful night, Setanta.”

“Woofff…” the dog said softly in assent.

They stood for a bit and watched the moon rise. Then the bookseller said:

“I should head out before the roads get bad.”

They crossed the porch, and the dog pulled the front door open using his mouth. The bell sleepily played “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

He pulled down the seven light switches, and the store went dark but for a few security lights and moonlight pouring in the windows.

“I won’t wake Mathilda.”

The cat was curled up on her cushion. She rumbled softly and contentedly.

“It was a busy day.”

“Woof,” the dog whispered. 

***

December 23rd was hectic but lacked mysterious visitors. The internet orders were fewer. People rightly surmised that anything mailed wouldn’t arrive on time. 

Mathilda had been up early cataloging the Galsworthy collection. She had put aside a few books with particularly interesting inscriptions and signatures.

A first edition of J. M. Barrie’s The Little White Bird. The inscription read in part:

I have become attached to the characters introduced here. Namely Peter Pan. I am tempted to let my imagination take flight and write more about the little boy who never grew up.

Do write me and let me know your thoughts. I would value your opinion. I do not wish to appear frivolous or flighty.

Yours, etc…

There was a short run of early P. G. Wodehouse in glowing humorous, colorful jackets with jibing inscriptions encouraging Galsworthy to “…lighten up, old chap…”

Tucked into one of the last Forsyte books were a dozen or so letters congratulating him on the Nobel Prize he was awarded in 1932. The return addresses read like a Who’s Who of the early 20th century—Roosevelt, Churchill, Lindbergh, Curie, Earhart. Likely they had never been replied to, as he died soon after. 

The letters were mostly from other notable authors. There was also one from Winston Churchill.

“Well! Good finds, Mathilda. Setanta, please bring her more of the Galsworthy collection. I do hope I see Old Tom again. I’d like to write another check. Maybe he could buy more reliable transportation.”

The store opened on time. People shuffled in after kicking snow off their boots on the porch. There were about a dozen sellers, as well—hoping for a little cash for their books in order to buy some last-minute presents.

December 23rd at the shop ended early. Only a few last-minute shoppers came in late—desperate for gifts.

“What should I get for a 13-year-old niece? She likes fantasy.”

“Has she read The Dark is Rising? We have an early edition in a perfect dust jacket. It’s only 15 dollars—less than a new trade paperback,” Annirosa offered.

She sensed the woman’s hesitation.

“I can ask the owner to give you 20 percent off—it being Christmas and all,” Annirosa said, putting the book into the auntie’s hands.

“You think she will like it? She reads Harry Potter a lot.”

“I’m sure she will. You’ll be a hero to her for discovering it.”

The day ended, and all four of the booksellers exhaled heavily when the knob on the front door was turned to engage the lock.

“It will soon be Christmas Eve. What are you doing, Annirosa?”

“I am flying off to be with family.”

“Need a ride to the airport?”

“Airport? Why would I go there? Let me make us some cocoa. It will be down into the teens tonight.”

“I’m glad there’s no more snow. At least the roads are cleared. I think we got eight inches last night.”

Annirosa began clattering mugs and spoons.

“I’ll get Mathilda a saucer of milk,” the bookseller said.

The cat leapt off the counter and began making figure eights around the bookseller’s feet.

“Don’t trip me, Mathilda, or you’ll be wearing your treat!”

“Mrrrrwowrrr…”

“We cannot give Setanta cocoa nor milk. What would you like, Setanta?” Annirosa asked the dog.

“A wee dram of Irish, to be sure. I’ll get the bottle,” the bookseller said.

“Whiskey is okay for a dog?”

“He’s not exactly a ‘dog’ dog. More like an earthly element.”

Setanta was already on it. He disappeared and quickly returned with the neck of a liter bottle of Teeling in his mouth. His enormous, heavy tail once again thumped against the shop counter like a drum.

Annirosa rolled her eyes, as did Mathilda. 

The mugs of cocoa were set atop the counter along with the saucer of milk. Setanta rose on his hind legs and put his forepaws on the counter, indicating he wished to join them. Annirosa bent and lifted a large soup bowl filled with amber spirits onto the counter.

The bookseller tilted the bottle of Teeling toward his mug.

“And a wee taste for me in the cocoa. I need something take the edge off that treacly stuff.”

“Well, here we all are, together at year’s end.” Annirosa said. “What are we all thankful for?”

“I’m thankful for you three. It has been an eventful year. We have saved a lot of wonderful books and spread the gospel of the printed word to yet another generation. May next year be even better and certainly no worse. Here’s to us and absent friends! Cheers!”

They clinked mugs. Setanta began lapping from his bowl. Mathilda pushed her saucer of milk a little farther away to avoid the splashing.

The evening ended early. Annirosa had some last-minute weaving to do at home. 

Mathilda leapt up to her shelf behind the counter and curled up on her cushion. 

The bookseller headed into his office. Setanta followed a bit unsteadily. 

He sat on the carpeted floor and began exploring the stacks of children’s classics. Setanta flopped down behind him and rested his head upon the man’s shoulder, watching as the books came into and out of the bookseller’s hands. 

They spent a few hours playing with the wondrous rare books. Man and dog. Setanta would occasionally woof softly when the bookseller found something especially exciting.

The bookseller would occasionally sip a bit of Irish neat from a snifter. He had a brought the bowl of whiskey in, and occasionally Setanta would rise and take a couple laps.

It was getting late—about 11:00—when Setanta signaled that he wanted to go out. He could get out on his own, but the bookseller feared a passerby might be frightened by the giant wolfhound out loose. Setanta opened the door, and the little silver bell above it played some notes from “O Tannenbaum.” They crossed the porch together, and then Setanta leapt over the railing like it was a steeplechase. He landed on the pavement and loped across it into the woods.

The bookseller leaned against the railing and mused on the past year. It hadn’t been so terrible.

“Could’ve been worse.”

Then he felt some tingles on the back of his neck. He sensed something was in the air above the bookshop. He leaned over the railing and looked up.

Nothing.

Still… 

Setanta noticed something, too, and began baying at the heavens. The dog trotted across the lot and leapt over the three steps onto the porch. His body language made it clear he wanted to go back inside. 

Once inside, the dog trotted to his bed and flopped onto it. He crossed his paws over his muzzle and was soon asleep.

As he passed her shelf, Mathilda opened her eyes dreamily and blinked three times, then went back to sleep. 

The bookseller went into his office and groaned.

“Too many books.”

Surveying the mess, he thought, “Nope. Not enough space.”

He stepped over to one of his glass bookcases where he kept his better books. He knew just where they were. His slipcased set of Dickens Christmas Books. All first editions. He pulled out the Christmas Carol and sat down at his desk. He opened it gently and settled into reading. 

After some time, he started getting sleepy and noticed the clock on the wall above the door read 11:58.

“Time to go home.”

He put the book on the desk, bent and began pulling on his boots when he heard the unmistakable sound of boots being stomped on the wooden porch. 

“Someone here? Shaking snow off their boots?”

He went out and opened the door. The bell played a somber “O Holy Night.”

There was a man standing in the dark. 

“May I help you? We’re closed.”

“It is Christmas Eve!”

“I know. Just turned midnight.”

“I came to say Merry Christmas. And to say goodbye.”

The voice was familiar but deeper. And the words and syntax were from another century; another era.

“Goodbye? Do I know you?”

“You did.”

The man stepped forward and into some light bleeding out through a window. He had on a large dark red cape. It had a big hood that all but covered his face. The clothes beneath seemed quite bulky.

“Tom? Tom Hubbard?”

“Tom crossed over today. You can call me Nick now.”

“But you look and sound like Tom.”

“Perhaps I do. Perhaps I was. I’ve been given a new task beginning tonight.”

“Tom, you shouldn’t be out on a night like this. It’s bitter cold. It’ll hurt your lungs.”

“HO! HO! HO! This is the night I am meant to be out! I am the new one. Old Chris Nicholas was worn out. It WAS he that brought you that sack of books yesterday. He has moved on, and I was chosen to take his place.”

With that, he opened his cape and was resplendent in the familiar red and white fur suit with a big shiny black belt.

“Santa Claus?”

“HO! HO! HO! And you have been especially good. I brought you a present.”

From somewhere in the folds of his cape, he withdrew a large clamshell box and handed it to the bookseller. The spine label read:

Shakespeare
First Folio
1623

“Chris Nicholas said to give it to you. It was his. As were all those books in his bag.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? Perhaps you are to be the next.”

“You mean Chris Nicholas was…”

“For many years. And now my time has begun.” He smiled. “Well, I must fly! I have only this one day to make my appointed rounds.”

“You mean those books in my office were Santa Claus’s children’s book collection?”

“HO! HO! HO! And Merry Christmas to Setanta and Mathilda. I see you peeking out the window!”

Indeed, the cat and the dog had their noses pressed against the office window. Their breath was creating foggy patches on the glass.

“I have presents for you two, too!” 

He reached into his cape and withdrew an enormous bone.

“The thigh bone of an Irish Elk. This should occupy Setanta for hours.”

He reached in again and withdrew a small round metal tin. He handed it to the bookseller. There were only two words printed on the tin’s lid.

“Nine Lives?”

“Yes. She can reload. She has used up a few in recent times—mostly in your service.”

“But how?”

“She will know.”

Then from behind the bookshop came the unmistakable sound of sleigh bells.

“I am being summoned. MERRY CHRISTMAS to you all. And to you all, a good night!”

With that, he nimbly hopped over the porch railing and disappeared around the side of the building.

“On Dasher! On Dancer. On Comet and Blitzen!”

There was a loud “WHOOSH” and the ringing of thousands of bells.

The bookseller rushed to the other side of the porch and leaned out and looked up. He saw the silhouette against the moon of a team of reindeer pulling a large sleigh packed with gifts. An arm raised in a salutation.

“HO! HO! HO!” echoed in the far distance.

The bookseller walked to the front door. When he opened it, the little bell played notes that were clearly “O Come All Ye Faithful.”

He crossed to the counter, and Setanta came skidding to a stop, eyeing the enormous bone in the man’s hand. 

“But it’s not Christmas yet.” 

The dog gave a low growl, and the bone dropped to the floor.

“Mathilda, I’ll set your tin atop your bed. Let me know if you need help opening it.”

The cat hopped up to her shelf, which was nearly eye level with the bookseller. She glared at him with glowing green eyes.

The bookseller headed into his office with his gift book still crooked under his arm.

He went into his office and set the folio down on his desk.

He laughed until he cried, and cried until he laughed again.

“I wonder what comes next?”

Thus began Christmas Eve in the old bookshop. 

Part 2

“They won’t believe this,” the bookseller thought as the sleigh, now a tiny dot far away in the sky, disappeared.

He shivered and then turned to go inside. Setanta’s nose was pressed against the glass on the front door. Mathilda was perched atop the huge dog’s head, her nose also pressed against the glass.

The bookseller turned and looked back across the parking lot, which was dimly lit by one lonely light flickering down from a tall post. A very large owl was perched on top of the post. It periodically blinked its deeply golden eyes.

“Hello, old friend. Watching over us?”

He opened the front door, and the bell sleepily trilled “The Christmas Song.”

When he stepped across the threshold, the cat was slithering figure eights around both his legs. Setanta was bouncing up and down like a puppy. He had a toothy dog smile on his face. He sneezed periodically, his head shaking violently, projectile snot splattering across the floor.

“Excited to see Santa, are you? Me too. Tom will be a good one. Perhaps they wear out after a few decades and are permitted to retire. I suppose that’s what happened with Chris Nicholas. Tom will make a good Santa. Heart of gold.”

Setanta was panting happily, slobber dripping onto the floor. Mathilda stood on her hind legs and stretched as high as the bookseller’s thigh. She dug her claws into the fabric of his pants.

“Owww!” he exclaimed, though the pain wasn’t severe. “Oh, I see. You want your presents. Well, Christmas is 24 hours away. So, you’ll just have to… OWW!”

He retrieved the little tin that contained nine more lives for Mathilda from his pocket. She took it into her mouth and strutted toward her nest on a bookshelf behind the sales counter. Then the bookseller released the giant bone from under his arm, and it fell to the floor with a loud thump. Setanta was on it in a second. He grabbed it with his jaws and attempted to head into the stacks, but the bone’s length was wider than the aisle. The bookseller watched as the huge dog cocked his head one way and then the other, measuring how much he would have to angle it to get down the aisle. After a moment of deliberation, he disappeared down the dark aisle, his claws clicking on the black and white linoleum tiles, bone held aloft.

“I hope he doesn’t try to bury it somewhere. Now, what to do at 1:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve in a bookshop?”

He turned to look out the front door. It had begun to snow heavily.

“We will have a white Christmas.”

Not for the first time, he headed back into his office to sleep. He pulled on a tattered, bulky wool sweater, took his old Burberry trench coat off the brass coat rack to use as a blanket, and laid down on the old overstuffed sofa pushed against the wall. He nestled into the warmth of the coat and put one pillow over his head and another under it. The room was dimly lit from the parking lot light.

He saw a shadow trot across the room and knew it was Mathilda. She leapt up and settled on the bookseller’s shoulder.

“Here for affection or warmth, Mathilda?”

She rumbled a low soft purr and settled in deeper.

He heard Setanta’s nails clicking closer from out in the store.

“Don’t bring that bone in here. I won’t be able to sleep with you gnawing all night.”

The dog let out a disappointed, “Merrrrr?” and there was a loud thump out by the counter as he dropped his bone. Setanta flopped down in front of the sofa, and the man reached down to scratch behind his ears.

“I wonder if I’ll dream of sugar plums?” he thought. “Just what are sugar plums?”

He considered pulling his phone out of his pocket to look it up, but decided not to.

Soon, all three were fast asleep.

He awoke with bright light filling the room. The sunrise was hitting a thick blanket of snow outside.

“We have a white Christmas!” was his first thought.

When he opened his eyes again, Setanta was staring down at him. The dog’s big, black wet nose was only a couple inches from his own.

“Wanna go out?”

The dog turned and pranced across the office and out into the bookshop.

The bookseller stood, put on his Burberry coat, and followed. In winter, he kept a pair of boots near the front door. He bent and pulled them on.

Setanta was sitting patiently, waiting for the door to open.

The little bell played a bit of “White Christmas” as they stepped outside. Mathilda rushed out between the bookseller’s legs before the door closed. She, too, wanted to see the glorious morning.

Little drifts had blown up onto the porch here and there. Mathilda leapt over them, avoiding getting her paws wet.

Setanta jumped over the railing, clearing it by a couple feet. He landed on the snow-covered parking lot, his paws sinking into the snow, and began galloping joyously, frolicking like a puppy.

The bookseller estimated that the snow was over a foot deep.

“I wonder if I should close today?” he thought. “That would disappoint a lot of people. But if they don’t plow the roads…”

His thought was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a snowplow, its chains clinking; steel scraping on the pavement out on the road.

“Well, if they can clear the roads, I can clear the parking lot. Or at least enough to get some cars in here.”

Setanta and Mathilda looked at him quizzically. They seemed to say, “We would help if we could…”

He pulled on his coat and boots. Wrapped a scarf around his neck. Pulled gloves onto his hands. Then he headed out onto the porch.

He started by shoveling off the front steps. He pushed the shovel on the ground all the way out to the street, creating a path about a foot and a half wide. Then he turned and began widening the path by tossing shovelfuls out from the edges.

Then he turned and went back to work on the other side. His goal was to get a path cleared wide enough for cars to enter and exit. Once he was done with that, he could start clearing parking spaces along the front porch.

He worked and worked, arms and back straining.

Periodically, he would take a short break, stopping and leaning on the shovel handle.

He’d been doing this for about an hour when an odd vehicle drove into the lot. It was a vintage Renault Dauphine.

It pulled in as far as it could go, but stopped where the path to the porch hadn’t been widened. Out hopped a strange group of women. They were swathed in shawls and scarves of many colors. Their contrast against the white snow was dramatic.

Last out of the driver’s door was Annirosa. She, too, was swathed, but not to the same extent. Beneath the shawls and scarves, she wore jeans and a puffy jacket.

Each woman had only a small shovel, but the group worked very fast and rhythmically. They were like a dance team. They attacked the snow as if they had choreographed it.

The bookseller walked out to greet them.

“Annirosa, where did you find all these people?”

“Oh, these are just some of my… ummm… weaving group.”

He looked more closely, and amongst the scarves and wrappings, he could see odd facial features peeking out. Pixieish visages. An occasional pointed ear.

“Thank you all for coming!” he called to them. They turned as a group and bowed in unison, said not a word, and then got back to the shoveling.

“I didn’t want the shop to lose its Christmas Eve sales,” Annirosa said. “When the snow started last night, I asked them to stay over. It was great fun. We wove all night. I put a cauldron onto the hook in the walk-in fireplace and made a traditional melange. When the dawn came, we cleared out my little drive and headed over here. The roads are already pretty clear. I think we will be busy today.”

The odd women made quick work of everything. Soon there was enough room for cars to drive in and out, and about 11 parking spaces along the front porch were clear.

Annirosa went to them and thanked them. They began putting their shovels into the Renault.

“Are you going to give them a ride home?”

She chuckled a bit.

“They don’t need a ride from me. They are going places that the Renault could never go.”

“Can I pay them something?”

“No. Money means nothing to them. But they did ask me to keep an eye out for certain kinds of books. History and mixology and spelling.”

“Spelling?”

“You do not want to know. Are their clothes not magnificent?”

Indeed, he was struck by colors he had never seen and fabrics unknown.

“We weave them ourselves from the coats of many creatures.”

“I bet we could sell some of those in the shop.”

Annirosa laughed again. It was a laugh one might make when a naive child asks the impossible.

“They would never part with them, and the rarity of the material would make them impossible to price. I am just an apprentice. They are all masters.”

“Can I get them something to drink or eat? Maybe some of your famous cocoa.”

“They do not eat anything like we would have inside. But they did ask if Mathilda and Setanta could come out to say hello. They are all old friends.”

The bookseller turned and hustled up onto the porch. He opened the front door, and out bounded the cat and dog. They sprinted to the group, and there were generous hugs and ear scratchings for both of them. Then the women clasped hands, made a circle, and began a dance with Mathilda and Setanta in the center. They didn’t chant or sing the dance tune, but rather “cooed” it. In the center of the circle, the dog and cat rose on their hind legs and danced a Gavotte.

After 17 turns, the dance stopped. All bowed to one another, and the troupe began walking out to the road.

“Are you sure I can’t give them a ride in the van or something?”

Annirosa laughed the laugh of joy at naivety.

“Just watch.”

As they got nearer to the road, the dozens of scarves and shawls each woman wore reshaped themselves into iridescent wings. One by one, they took flight. They circled the bookshop, cooing before they peeled away and headed to the west.

“Where are they going?”

“Into the West. The celebrations there… and the feasts… perhaps someday you would like to see them.”

“Maybe. If you think I’m worthy.”

“You are a legend among them. They would be honored. And you should meet some of the guards you have around you.”

“I need guards?”

“Sometimes. And this place—always. There are books you do not know you have. And then there is the ring.”

“Are those women the large owls I see around here so often?”

“They can be if they wish. But enough questions. I heard you had a special visitor last night.”

“Yes! It was Tom Hubbard, as I live and breathe.”

“It was once Tom,” Annirosa said. “He agreed to accept a great gift and challenge. His body was failing quickly in many ways, but his spirit was strong. Chris Nicholas had been Santa Claus for 50 or 60 years. He was worn and ready to find peace. Last night was the perfect evening for the reins to be passed. I would say that Tom, who is now Nick, is somewhere over Europe now. He will pass by here again later.”

“But he already gave us presents. I got my dream book, a Shakespeare first folio. And Setanta got an enormous bone from a long extinct Irish Elk.”

“Extinct? I do not believe so. Tir Nan Nog had herds of them last time I was… last I heard…”

“And Mathilda was given nine more lives.”

“That is good. I was concerned she was running low and needed to be topped up.”

“Now, we should go inside and get the store ready to open. It is Christmas Eve!”

The four booksellers turned and trudged up onto the porch. The bell over the door rang “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” as they entered.

In they went and began getting the shop ready for customers.

And the customers came and came and came.

The day was a blur.

“So much last-minute shopping,” the bookseller remarked.

“I believe 31 percent of them are buying books for themselves,” Annirosa replied.

“It is good to be busy—to be an old bookstore and still be relevant.”

It was one of the rare days that no one brought books in to sell. The shop was bright with all the sunlight bouncing off the snow outside. Annirosa had Christmas carols playing on the sound system.

In midafternoon, business started slowing, and the determination was made to close early—4:30.

At 4:23, the door opened. The bell tinkled “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” In walked a bent old woman. She had a ragged, very large, black shawl wrapped around her. It covered her head and shoulders and much of her body. She wore black hobnail boots and a worn and torn red peasant skirt.

The store was empty but for her and the four booksellers.

The bookseller, Annirosa, and Setanta were behind the sales counter. Setanta, the dog, was standing on his hind legs and was the tallest by 17 inches. Mathilda, the cat, was working on the laptop. She stopped typing and looked up at the last customer of the day.

The woman limped past the counter and headed back into the stacks. The shawl covered all of her face except her nose, which protruded five centimeters beyond it. At the end of her nose was a large black wart. The wart had seven bristly hairs sticking straight out from it.

“Merry Christmas,” the bookseller said. “We are closing…” Annirosa surreptitiously stepped on his foot. “But we will stay as long as you wish to shop.”

The woman nodded slowly and continued past them. The bookseller was sure he could hear her bones creaking with every step.

“That’s an odd customer,” the bookseller said under his breath.

“Not really. She does not work until the eve of the Epiphany—January 5th.”

“I’ll turn the ‘OPEN’ sign around.”

“I will make us some cocoa, and then I really must fly. My family is getting together tonight, and it is ever so far away.”

“Will you have enough time to drive there?”

“Time? Drive?” She laughed merrily. “No problem.”

She turned and headed to the tiny closet-sized pantry.

Setanta gently picked up a 19th century omnibus edition of Dickens’ Christmas Stories and trotted down an aisle to stock it.

Mathilda rose, stretched, and used two paws to pull down the top of the laptop. She nimbly jumped off the counter onto the floor and scurried away to her litter box.

The bookseller went into his office and ran the gauntlet of piles of books that had filled it up so much the day before. The once-red big velvet Santa sack had been dragged to a corner. It was bulging with books, and indeed, a few dozen had spilled out of its top.

“What will I do with a bag of books that never empties?” he wondered.

He crossed to the window and turned the “OPEN” sign around to read “CLOSED.” He stood and stared out at the snowy expanse leading into the woods, where bare black trees rose in spindly contrast to the white carpet.

“Another Christmas. More adventures. I wonder what next year will bring?” he thought. “More books, I expect.” He chuckled to himself.

He stared into the woods and reflected.

“I’ve had this view for four decades now. It hasn’t really changed. Woods on all four sides.” Across the street out front were more woods. “I should have called this place ‘The Black Forest Book Shop.’”

Birds were flitting to and fro around the feeder atop a squirrel-proof pole at the edge of the parking lot.

The bookseller mused on the state of things. He saw himself as a child, all bundled up and tussling with friends in the snow.

“Snow wasn’t so cold back then.”

He thought of Christmases as a teen and young man. With his parents there. So long ago.

“They gave great Christmases. I was very lucky.”

Christmases with Priscilla before she crossed over.

And the Christmases since—which seem to have gotten more and more bizarre.

“What next?” he mused. “Or is it me?”

He turned and walked around stacks of books to leave the office. As he passed his desk, he noticed the old mailing tube lying there. He picked it up as he passed and walked out to the counter.

The counter was covered with piles of books that had evidently been set there by the old woman with the shawl. They were all children’s books, by the looks of them.

As he approached the counter, Annirosa emerged from the pantry closet with a mug in each hand.

Mathilda looked down on the scene, perched on her pillow on a shoulder-high bookshelf. Her eyes glowed gold, and her countenance was serene.

Setanta came clicking up to the front end and let out a confused “Errrup?” when he saw all the books.

Annirosa had to set the mugs on a shelf under the counter—there was no room on top.

“We were only gone a few minutes,” the bookseller mumbled.

“Not even that,” Annirosa said. “Look at the clock.”

It still read 4:23.

“Has time stopped?”

It was then they heard the metal nails of the old woman’s boots scraping closer. She was not visible behind the solid mass of books covering the counter. But her two crooked and gnarled hands appeared and set a stack of 11 books atop the pile.

“Did she carry all these books up here, Mathilda?”

The cat cocked her head up and away aloofly, as if to say, “I am not telling”.

The bookseller and Annirosa went around the counter so they could actually see the woman. She was just a few inches taller than four feet.

“Did you want to take these today? I didn’t see a truck or car out in the lot.”

The woman replied in extremely rapid Italian. Had she spoken in English, the bookseller likely still wouldn’t have been able to keep up.

“She says she does not need them for a couple weeks. Just please box them up and leave them on the porch, and she will have them swept away.”

“Of course you speak Italian,” the bookseller said to Annirosa.

“It is not really Italian, but an ancient dialect from Urbania.”

“How will she be paying?”

The woman began gesticulating with her hands. Her fingers and her nose were the only long things about her.

“She says the money is already in your bank and that unless you need something else, she must sweep away. She has many more stops.”

“But these books are all in English.”

The little hag spoke rapid fire again, using her hands profusely. When she was done, she gave Annirosa a shrug of her shoulders.

“They are being translated as we speak. Unless you have any more foolish questions, she has spent too much time here already. She was referred here by colleagues who recommended you for your competence. Now she is not so sure.”

“I’ll open the front door for you, ma’am. These will be packed and out on the porch by tomorrow afternoon. Setanta is a fast packer.”

She headed to the door but gave the bookseller a little kick in the shins as she passed him. She opened the door herself and scurried out.

The bell above the door played some “Caro Gesu’ Bambino.”

“What was that all about, Annirosa?”

“That was Befana. And you were not very polite to her.”

“Me? She was mean!”

“That is her job; her gig. Now can we finally close up? I really must fly.”

“Sure. You’re sure you don’t need a ride?”

Annirosa groaned and turned, headed for the door.

“Don’t you have any bags?”

She gave the door a little slam behind her.

The bell played “Little Drummer Boy,” with a “rum pum pum pum…”

“What did I say? Should I go apologize?”

When he got out on the porch, there was no one there. But there was a witch’s broom leaning against the railing by the front steps. The porch was meticulously swept clean. Not a leaf or twig was anywhere to be seen.

“This place sure attracts a lot of strange women,” he thought to himself. Then he turned and went back inside.

“Well, it is just us three. Cocoa, anyone?”

The dog and cat signaled their displeasure.

“Anyone know what a Befana is?”

Then he noticed the ancient craft paper mailing tube atop a stack of Befana’s books.

“I guess we can call this my Christmas present. I wonder who sent it?”

He picked it up and inspected it.

“Addressed to me. Here. I’d say a hundred years ago, judging from the stamps,” he thought.

“What do you think, Mathilda?”

She threw her left hind leg straight up into the air and began chewing on it in response.

Setanta had retrieved the huge Irish Elk bone and was assiduously gnawing on it on the floor in front of the counter.

The bookseller looked under the counter until he found a yellow and black box cutter. He cut through the paper glue tape at the seam and pulled the tube apart.

The contents were a roll of paper backed with protective linen. He slid the roll out of the wrappings, and a small piece of paper with fountain pen ink notes fluttered to the floor. He unrolled the linen a bit to what it protected.

“A map!”

Mathilda leapt from her perch and landed on a stack of books so she could observe.

“There’s no room on the counter. And there’s no room in my office—except the desk.”

He went in there and unfurled the map onto the desk.

“Well, I’ll be! A map to Fairyland, and an old one at that!”

“Look how long it is! It must be four feet long!”

Mathilda hopped onto the desk. She had the handwritten note in her mouth. She held it daintily by its corner.

He retrieved it and read: “I’ve been told that in the next millennium—a century from now—you may have a way of finding Fairyland. I’ve tried and damned if I got a sniff of it. Cheers! Chris Nicholas.”

The bookseller flushed a bit and raised his eyes to the ring hanging upon the wall.

“I wonder…” he pondered.

“Well, it is Christmas Eve, Mathilda. What shall we do? Watch a movie?”

She hopped down and exited the office. He heard her rattle her empty saucer.

“I’ll bring you some milk. Irish whiskey, Setanta?”

The dog gave a howl of assent.

“Maybe we should read some? Dickens?”

He pulled open the liquor drawer—bottom left—on his old carved desk. He retrieved a bottle of single barrel so old the label was handwritten.

“Eighteen forty-three,” he said. “I’ve been saving this. But what for?”

He poured two fingers into a tumbler—neat.

He set two saucers on the floor. One for the dog. One for the cat.

He had retrieved a small red duodecimo from his rare book glass case.

He sat on the couch, his legs stretched out between the two animals.

“Well, let’s try again. It didn’t turn out well last night, did it?

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge’s name was good upon ’Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to.

Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

***

Christmas Day dawned to reveal a fresh blanket of snow. A lot of snow. But there was no need to clear it today. The bookshop only closed on Christmas Day and Thanksgiving Day.

Setanta was up early packing Befana’s boxes.

The bookseller spent the night in the office curled under a heavy dark brown, faux-fur sled blanket.

When he rose, he went to the window.

“Look at that! Three feet at least. And over in the woods, three giant owls on three beeches. Mathilda, come see!”

But she didn’t hear him. She was busy printing orders.

“Ca-chunk. Ca-chunk. Ca-chunk…”

He turned and headed out of the office. As he passed his desk, he tapped the ancient map.

“Chris, I know how to get to Fairyland. It is hanging right there. Do I have the courage?”

At the sales counter, about half the books had already been packed by the dog.

“I suppose I’ll have to schlep them out to the porch.”

Setanta was very strong and very dexterous with his big mouth. But there was no way for him to get hold of a box.

The bookseller picked up a book from the counter. Strega Nona. He opened it. The text was in Italian. He opened a few more. Italian.

“I wonder how… Maybe she likes American bindings.”

He put the teakettle on the burner and turned it on.

“So, Mathilda, people actually order books on Christmas Eve?”

She looked at him and squinted her eyes—giving him her “laser look.”

He pulled on his old Burberry trench coat. He pulled on his boots. He wrapped a muffler around his neck. He retrieved the old steel two-wheel cart and began rolling boxes out onto the porch.

“Happy families are all alike,” he said to no one in particular.

He looked at his magic cat. He looked at his magic dog.

“I wonder if there’s any magic hiding in me anywhere?”

Part 3

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. That was a rarity—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, the dog’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. 

“Pick up, 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 distant “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.”