Bari's Scriptorium

Several books rise beside the stairwell and are placed in order on the shelf Blake has hovering near the ceiling. Blake knows he helped his father place the the clear plastic storage bin with the blue and white Christmas lights under the stairs. 

“The blue and white lights looked great lining the bookstore window last year,” he says to Bari, his sister. You said as much after we put them up. The haze from the frost we’ll somehow have to create ourselves. It’s fifty degrees and cloudy. No snow and icicles so far, only fog and rain.”

“Put those books back on the floor. No magic during business hours. Poppa said.” The town is abandoned, it seems. The only way to tell if anyone exists is the aroma of hot chocolate mixed with the whiff of burning firewood and the scent of the newly decorated giant pine tree drifting through the town square. Instead of a slow snowfall with friends walking by the window arm in arm themselves, the gift of their loved ones' gray fog presses its nose against the bookstore glass and peers inside.

“No one can see us,” replies Blake. “ Look at it. It’s a mess out there. We can practice the craft all day and get this place cleaned up and ready for those who might visit.”

“But it likely won’t be today,” she adds. “Who would bother? And the rain is starting to fall harder,” Bari’s standing in the doorway, entranced by the fog swallowing the big pine tree; drops of rain pelt the bookshop floor and several books on the short bookshelf where the coffee maker sits. 

A strong breeze snatches the handle of the door from her hand. She is knocked off her feet and slides into the coffeemaker’s shelf. Blake steadies the short bookcase. “That was almost the hot chocolate. What are you doing? Can’t you stand up straight?”

“It wasn’t me. Something pushed me.”

“What was that noise? Asks their father rushing down the stairs. “I told you not to cast spells during business hours. Anyone could be watching. We have a lot of friends here, but we also have enemies who hate magic.” The steam is still rising from the cup of hot chocolate in Blake’s hand as his other clutches the coffeemaker. 

Bari grabbed the books on the floor beside her when she heard her father’s footsteps striding across the floor of their upstairs home. She placed one on the shelf and grabbed two others, pretending that’s what she had been doing all along when he came bounding down the stairs.  

“Why aren’t you helping the customer?” their father asks them. “You can drink hot chocolate while helping the customer. And you don’t have to sit down to put books on the shelf. The door is wide open. Why?” Says poppa striding toward the bookstore doorway, looking right then left, searching for the customer. He sees no one in the store or anyone that just left scanning it as he closes the door.

He suspects no one was there, and no books were sold. Simply that Bari and Blake were causing the store’s puppets to do flying trapeze tricks, dance, and sword fight while they drank hot chocolate and caused the books to fly around in a circle, opening and closing, applauding the whole performance. 

“You were playing with the puppets again, weren’t you? Like the books, hot chocolate, and cookies, they are for the customers. If they catch the puppets talking to you and an assortment of cookies marching across the cabinets, you’ll scare them away. The only thing they’ll want to do is burn the bookstore to the ground.”

Bari’s hand was hovering over the tray of cookies next to the coffee machine, eyes set on the butter pecan. She could feel Blake daring her to grab a couple, the corners of his mouth rising. Her father’s eyes burning a hole in her. She glared at Blake and moved her hand away. “I left the door open,” she confessed. But it had nothing to do with magic. At least not on my part. Something knocked me from the door, and I think it’s still here.”

Poppa looked at her and then at Blake curiously. “Something? What was it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anything.”

“She was almost doused with a pot of hot water, not to mention tossing a tray of hot cookies. Whatever it was that came through knocked her off her feet,” Blake explained.

“That’s why you were on the floor when I came downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“What did it feel like?”

“Just a strong breeze.”

Poppa looked back toward the front door and then to the short shelf where Blake had finally put down the coffeemaker. Bari was still hovering over the fresh batch of cookies she just finished baking. The two glance at one another, then at poppa, contemplating their punishment. It’s silent except for the rain pelting the windows; rivulets of water run between the name Bari’s Scriptorium, the store started by their ancient ancestor when only scrolls existed. Poppa scanned the bookstore, inquisitive looks passed between brother and sister.

Footsteps are heard moving on the stairs. The door slams shut, and poppa, Blake, and Bari hear more footsteps running across the upstairs floor. All sprint up the stairs, “reserare,” they say. Poppa slammed into the door as he grabbed the knob. It’s still shut. All three lay their hands on the door. “Reserare,” they shout again. The hinges fall free. The knob comes apart in poppa’s hand, and they all hit the floor on top of the door. Poppa and Bari glare at Blake, frowning.

“Was it really necessary to undo the whole door?” Bari rubs the spot where the knot is rising on her head. 

“Show yourself,” says poppa standing up. Who are you? What do you want?”

Kalmia becomes visible, holding an iron box with their family heirloom inside. “You don’t recognize me, Menes? It hasn’t been so long. I won’t waste your time, old friend. Your family owes the kingdom three thousand years of sacrifices. But I’ll take only one life so that the lineage will continue. The male child is wreckless and immature. His sacrifice will allow your family permission to practice magic for another millennium.”

“Kalmia, we don’t live by those ancient rules anymore. We escaped the kingdom’s barbaric ways for a reason.”

“The ancient ways never die out, Menes. Your family has been hiding for over three thousand years, soon after the creation of this scriptorium.”

“Demon, you won’t take my brother.”

Bari’s knees buckle, and her hands seize.  Her eyes roll back in her head, and her stiff body rises horizontally. “Your magic is strong for baking cookies and mastering puppets, young one, but you still need several millennia of magic to prevent your brother’s sacrifice.”

“Menes is pinned to the wall with a flick of Kalmia’s wrist. “I will take either one; since Bari has volunteered, we will honor her sacrifice.” Bari is wrapped in ritual silk, floats down the stairs, and disappears into the fog.