Guardian Cats and the Lost Books of Alexandria

Chapter 5: Old paper, leather and ink

Marco awoke, startled to find he was still in the tree, as though nothing had happened. The dream evaporated like mist, and the sun, low and bold, glowed briefly through the canopy of magnolia leaves before disappearing altogether.

It was his favorite time of day, this fading light that heralded the coming of night. The atmosphere shifted with a quality that came in the natural order of things, like the phases of the moon or the changing of the guard.

A slight breeze kicked up and the leaves of the magnolia tree waved at him, inviting him to play. He climbed to where tree and roof entwined from years of companionship, pressing his way through the thick foliage until he reached open sky.

The town, spread out below in a carpet of trees and buildings, was threaded by a river and bordered by distant hills. This must be the top of the world, he thought. Only the church spire reached higher into the sky, and he felt immensely happy for the first time since he’d been on his own. Nothing lifted his spirits quite like a good view.

Lights blinked on across the town, and he made a game of trying to guess where the next one would appear, but he couldn’t keep up. He got up to explore a large dome on the ridge of the roof. Banded with small windows all around, through one pane of glass, another cat looked straight back at him.

Marco searched for a way in and found a broken window worked as well as any door.

The air inside was musty, and he recognized the earthy scent of old books. Without stopping to think, he jumped in, expecting to land on the floor. But the dome windows were designed for letting in light, not cats, and Marco was suddenly hanging by his claws on a narrow piece of wood.

He made the mistake of looking down, lost his grip and plummeted towards the ground. A wooden beam broke his fall and from there, he leaped to the top of a bookshelf, unsettling small puffs of ancient dust. As he descended to the floor, he breathed in the rich scent of old paper, leather and ink and the promise of countless stories.

The silence was made deeper by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. But there was something hiding within—he could feel it—and he moved with stealth through his new surroundings, alert for any sign of danger.

His ears perked up as he caught a quick spatter of voices.

Cautiously, he approached the stacks. The voices spoke, muffled and intermittent, as though waking from a long nap.

Marco could not resist eavesdropping, no matter the risk, and followed them right into one of the dark hollows, its walls made entirely of books. Like vendors calling out their wares, the books began making their pitch.

“I never knew a trail to get cold so quickly,” came a gruff voice from one book.

“Let us carry Sir Gill’s body in honor from the battlefield, lest he be trampled by the horses.” That voice came from a different one.

“If Mr. Boswell shot himself,” a mystery book argued, “there would be powder marks around the wound.”

Further on, a woman screamed, a man shouted, and he heard the clip clop of horse hoofs on brick.

“They are dragging her away!”

A clank of metal. “Good! My sword is at my side. I will defend her at all costs.”

Talking books sure made it easier to find something to read, thought Marco, as he pawed The Three Musketeers off the shelf and settled down on the floor. He liked the hero, d’Artagnan, and as he read, he forgot he was a cat. He became d’Artagnan, rescued several fair maidens, fought evil and injustice, and shrugged off danger as if it were a game.

In the middle of a duel, a faint sound, like the tinkling of bells, broke the story’s spell. He lost his concentration, left d’Artagnan on his own and got up to investigate. A soft rush of air and a wave of motion passed through his body, like the flutter of angel wings. He followed the rustling of energy as though it beckoned to him. What kind of books might possibly be on the second floor?