An Eyre of Mischief

A spider walked on spindly legs toward a filthy corner underneath the desk of Marsha M. Willard. Marsha watched it as she pressed her cheek hard against the cold floor and felt her body respond with fresh goosebumps. There was an alarming amount of dust and she made a mental note to do a thorough and rigorous sweep first thing tomorrow. She sighed. Other than her eight-legged squatter, there was nothing else under there. She pushed herself up to a cross-legged seat and thought of where else she could look. 

Circulation desk, card catalogue, fiction, nonfiction, children’s shelves. She mentally checked off her list. Even the bathrooms! Where else could that dial be? 

She narrowed her eyes to squints as if that would help her zero in on her prize. When it didn’t, she started to make her way up off the floor. But before she could get solidly to her feet, she felt a rude push from behind. It was just enough to knock her wobbly and she palmed her hands hard into the desktop. Almost instantly, another push came and a curse sat ready on her tongue as she braced against her arms, baffled. It was then she realized what had happened: her office door hadn’t completely shut behind her. They had all gotten in. 

Keeping the chaos outside of her office was paramount for her to be able to focus and remain sensible. If she was to effectively retrace her steps, find the library dial, and get home at a reasonable hour, she needed to remain calm. Unfortunately, her office was now a flurry of activity which threatened her inner peace – and her footing. It was going to be almost impossible to search for the dial.

“Is literally every author in here?!” Marsha cried out, exasperated. “This is a fire hazard and you all know it!”

She felt like a hawk being swarmed by an army of sparrows. Her irritation grew and a headache started to bloom in her temple. When she felt a third, rough push against her back, she had reached the limit of her patience. Her previously contained curse finally grew so large it burst from her mouth and she spun around wildly with her arms flapping about like ungraceful wings. 

“Everyone GET OUT!” she directed to all corners of the room at once. 

There was a flurry of commotion as she shoo’d and shoo’d, and the mass exodus left behind torn pages, bits of paper, and forgotten bookmarks everywhere. Her hair and clothes were effectively mussed and her glasses askew, but Marsha was pleased to see that she had mostly succeeded in clearing the room. It was a relief. But she’d soon find herself in the same position if she didn’t manage to get the door closed properly. She hastened over, but before she got to the handle she felt another inquiry behind her — a single, gentle and familiar prod between her shoulder blades.

“Why must you be so persistent?” She sighed, eyes lifted to the ceiling. “I’m a bit preoccupied and you know I have to get through a massive backlist before I can read you again anyway.” 

A copy of Jane Eyre floated around to her side and gently rested its cover on her shoulder, eliciting a fond smile from the librarian. 

“You can carry on like this all you like,” she gave the cover a pat, “but you’re still going to stay at the back of the queue.” Marsha’s tone was not unlike someone talking to their pesky but cherished cat. 

The book’s pages sagged in defeat and for a moment, Marsha considered abandoning her current mess in favor of the beloved Brontë, but a loud crash snapped her head back to her desk. Her lamp had been knocked to the floor and the bulb lay cracked open, its tiny shards glinting up at her. 

“Great. As if I’m not already up to my ears in-” but before she could finish her thought, The Two Towers came tearing up from the crime scene and turned a few masterful circles overhead. She sighed aloud and watched as the book flew gleefully out of the room.

“Going to cause more trouble, no doubt.” She imagined two mischievous Hobbits having a great laugh at her expense. “Well, I might as well go and face the chaos head-on. Care to be part of my fellowship?” 

Jane Eyre spiraled upward, making Marsha laugh with its affirmative response.

“Then onward!”

Outside of Marsha’s office was sheer pandemonium. The place was filled with books of all sizes dancing up by the ceiling, flocking around corners like birds, and flitting in and out of the shelves. She had never seen the books in this state before. They were unencumbered. Some careening recklessly, others drifting lazily. They were pushing at the walls and windows. Marsha thought about how the library must look from the outside — like it was expanding, turning blue from holding its breath. Ready to explode and release the books that have come to life. All of the library's novels and comics, textbooks and encyclopedias, short stories and works of poetry, were straining to bust through the walls and soar out into the night. It was sheer madness. It was sheer wonder. It took Marsha’s breath away. 

And she knew. She’d have to find the dial fast. 

Using the dial was actually very simple in theory. Since it manipulated the amount of agency the books had, during the day, it was only to be kept at its very lowest setting. If the library happened to be teeming with already voracious readers and studious patrons, it was completely turned off. The dial’s true purpose was when the library felt listless, and when people were found wandering aimlessly through the stacks, nothing catching their eye, an air of defeat hanging about. 

The dial could be used to provide wanderers with a tiny amount of unsuspected magic as the perfect book happened to come into their view. Shakespeare was likely to tip on its spine just a bit precariously for a struggling English Major to notice. Octavia E Butler would tremor a little, catching the gaze of a science fiction reader who’s been lacking something captivating and devastating. Neil Gaimen would gently clap both covers, drawing in someone needing to be transported elsewhere for a while. And Toni Morrison, well, Toni Morrison just tumbles forward for any and every passerby, as well she should.  

The dial allows readers to end up leaving with a book they might never have grabbed and the warm sensation that, somehow, their lives were about to be enriched. It’s subtle, but powerful. Just a slight nudge of the dial and the books know just where they are needed and where they will be able to pass on a little pleasure to the next page voyager’s heart and mind. 

By some means, the dial had been turned up to its highest level and the books had been given all of their own agency. And they wanted out. They could sense readers everywhere and wanted into their hands. They wanted to swarm like honeybees to the teachers, students, mothers, fathers, and caregivers of all kinds. They wanted to pollinate accountants, cashiers, mail carriers, and the staff at the animal shelter. There were bedrooms and kitchen tables and living rooms to overrun. Parks and stores. Restaurants and schools. The books wanted them all. 

Marsha wasn’t sure if the dial had ever been turned up to full power. She feared she was in the midst of a catastrophe. She needed to find that dial and make sure everything was put right before the library could open tomorrow, and Marsha wouldn’t stand to see the day that the library couldn’t open. 

She raced out of her office and into the giant mass of raging books making a break toward the circulation desk. Several books descended from their heights and chased Marsha, causing her to wildly swing her arms to bat them away. She was sure she saw The War of the Worlds at the helm.

“Ow!” she gasped in pain. “Paper cut!”

Sucking her finger, she plunged herself underneath the half-moon shaped desk for refuge, nearly knocking over an enormous recently returned pile. She poked her head out to see if any books still followed her. Flinching as one book stopped daringly a mere inch in front of her face, she saw the faded black print on the cover and read Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. Marsha finally felt some hope. 

Jane Eyre circled triumphantly over and over in front of Marsha, then darted off toward the main entrance as if beckoning. Then suddenly it clicked.

“The foyer. Of course. I watched the rain this afternoon.”

She knew where she needed to go. Marsha took a deep breath from the very bottom of her abdomen. She thought about the great courage of the authors whose books were now tearing through the building. Each one with a unique voice. Each one just hoping to leave a lasting mark on this earth. She hoped their inspiration would carry her. 

She stood. 

She ran. 

She jumped over a trilogy of books hovering just above the floor. She ducked under a threat of swooping paperbacks and plunging hardcovers. She felt like a speeding arrow. She felt like a rushing current. She was a pioneer on the moon and an explorer of the deep. She was going to make it.

At the last second she threw herself forward into the very heart of the foyer, knocking out all of her breath with one ungraceful plop. 

“Adventurers must be in better shape,” she conceded, rubbing her aching back. She looked through the dark foyer windows in front of her and suddenly feared that all of her verve had been spent. Head rattled and heart racing, she could do nothing but sit there, dazed. Then Jane Eyre appeared. 

Its cover opened like a hand extended and as Marsha rose, deriving strength from the battered book in front of her, Jane Eyre drifted backwards, dream-like, and stopped directly over the sought-after object. The dial. In the farthest corner of the foyer.

- - - - - - 

Once the dial was safely tucked away in its hidden carriage and all the books were, dormant, back in their rightful places on the shelves, Marsha leaned back in her office chair, exhausted. She allowed for a very long sigh of relief and enjoyed the sweet quiet of the finally empty room. But she couldn’t quite relax fully. Something nagged at her in the back of her skull.

“How did that dial get turned up all the way?” she mused. “I’m sure I hadn’t noticed it was missing until we were already closed.”

Circulation desk cleared, stacks reorganized, dial – taken care of. She mentally checked off her list. Even the bathrooms are clean!

She sat up quickly. Mouth open. Eyes wide. 

She looked down. 

Next to her feet on the floor, the copy of Jane Eyre sat quiet and unassuming — but decidedly not back in its proper place in the stacks. She couldn’t believe it.

“It was you.” she said aloud. “You messed with the dial. I mean, how would you even do that, how did you – ” but she cut herself off and just stared down at the cover. Finally, she bent over and lifted up the book, being careful to mind her still throbbing paper cut. She thought she should stand up, take it back to its spot, and put it to bed for the night once and for all. She hesitated.

“Well,” she said looking fondly down at the book in her hands, “what’s a couple hours longer?” 

She ran her hand over the cover and opened the first page. 

“Alright, my dear,” Marsha said. “Take me home.”