Something Not Just Blue and Despair

The librarian went over to the bookshelf, squatting down and using her prettily painted fingernails to try to locate a certain book she wanted to check out for her adorably, doe-eyed niece. Icy-white wispy hair got smoothed aside as she sighed.

“Where is it?”

Getting up, she thought she saw something. Something icing-white. So white in fact it looked like it belonged in a fantasy world, in a bookshelf of an elf’s cottage home or a comfy little living roof belonging to a dwarf. But this place was no soft place for a cute little creature; rather, the librarian saw something that took the book that was meant for her niece right out of her mind.

She went around the bookshelf and made a U-turn, grabbing it. But she instantly dropped it, for it was almost as burning as dry ice. This stuff would have burnt her hand. But someone said, “No—it’s okay. Just open it.”

“But—”

“Just do it!”

The librarian stared at the woman in front of her. It was as if she had come—the librarian shook her head. “Who are you?” She asked instead.

“I’m the winter princess trapped in the world of Spring.”

“What do you mean?”

The woman dressed in a beautiful dress made of what looked like fairy wings of pure icicle white lead her over quietly. The librarian had no idea how no one saw this weird person, but anyway, listened as the woman told her she was a princess from far away. She used to be a queen, but now she was enslaved to the Spring Warriors who made her clean her armor and ready their horses for battle. The winter princess-queen said that the librarian needed to help her stop these men and women who enslaved all of her people and herself. The librarian didn’t want to, shaking her head in fear.

“No—I’m not getting tangled up in your—”

“You must!”

The terrified look on the woman’s face made the librarian feel so sorry she led her to her makeshift home, where the frosty book was left behind. When they had arrived at the world of Spring, the librarian stared around her in awe at how the beautiful princess could be in such a dump—stalls made literally of mud, cakes of dirt and dust being flung at the poor princesses and princes, their backs seeming to ache under the strain of building new, better-looking stalls and bridges and things like that. The librarian found herself stepping in all this dung and smeared mud and clumps of dirt. She plugged her nose as they passed by heaps of manure, flies all around it.

“Now I know why you hate it here!”

“Yeah—we need to go home.”

“But I don’t want to leave my job. If I do, I won’t have one.”

“Well, I’ll help with that. If you do what I say, you’ll have the best job in the world.”

“What—checking books out?” The librarian braved it, unplugging her nose. She decided to get used to it.

The princess shook her head. “Whatever that is, it’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What are you talking about?” The librarian suddenly wished she were curled up at home, with a good book. But she wasn’t. She raised her eyebrows impatiently. “Hm?”

The princess smiled, half in despair. “Let’s go to my world.”

They went through the library, traveling through worlds. The librarian stared at all the gorgeous crystal ceilings, pink and blue and white gowns, jewelry and dresses fit for princesses and suits for princes. But the princess lamented none of these things were theirs. They were all locked away—only able to look at from far away. Only the princess wanted everything to go back to normal.

“What’s wrong?” The princess must’ve seen the sad look on the librarian’s face.

“Oh!” The librarian chuckled. “I…love my niece, and she really wants this beautifully written novel—”

“Then write it.”

The librarian stared at her, and then sighed. She blinked rapidly. “I can’t. If I use a pen one more time, I’ll get fired. And fired means back home with my horrible husband. He’s dirt-poor, lazy, can’t hold a job and his cooking stinks. Literally—everything’s burnt, or charred. Or—”

“How long are you going to stand there and wilt under the pressure of horror?”

The librarian looked at her. Then she nodded. “Yeah. I guess.” The princess had such a way of guilt-tripping. Or was it true pain? The woman looked at the other. She wiped her nose and nodded. “Yeah. I guess I’ll help you.”

Reluctant.

The princess sighed. “Sorry you have to suffer in a dump.”

The librarian waved her hands. “No, no! I…” Then she looked into the woman’s eyes. They were so blue, so beautiful, but the beauty was stolen by such despair and sadness. Such horror had never befallen such gorgeous evergreen trees or vines or brick walkways or cobblestone streets or rivers or streams or butterflies. Everything was caked in mud or manure or hanging down because of some mud piled onto it. Everything was disgusting. And smelled.

“And your life is any worse?”

“Uh…no.” This time, the librarian wasn’t so hesitant. She said she’d do anything. She went back to the library, grabbed some paper and started writing down words. Words that formed warriors that, with her hair in the wind and sword at her side and specific animals carrying her or at her side as she dashed towards the melee, fighting for her people and her freedom.

“There!”

The librarian jumped right back into the novel of Spring, telling the princess that everything was written down—

“Where’s your warrior?”

The librarian grabbed her—

“No.” The princess bent down and drew in the dirt. Then she picked up the drawn pen and said, handing it to the librarian after standing up, “Here.” The librarian grabbed it and started drawing with paper given her that had been drawn in and picked up from the mud.

Now the words were flying. The librarian sat down, writing and writing. Warrior princesses and their animals and weapons started attacking the enemy, the masters of the slaves attacking back. But the princess, who had gone to war, told her that she shouldn’t stop writing. The librarian obeyed, worlds of allies forming at her pen’s command, words filling up page after page. As they did so, the librarian started attacking the paper, and smiling confidently, not daring to look up. She heard the warriors she had created and their animals and their weapons clashing and striking the enemy. Finally, the librarian looked up at the soft touch of the princess’s hand on her shoulder.

“Look—we won! We won our freedom.”

The librarian looked up. The world wasn’t much different. The world of Spring and the world of Winter were, though—the princess had her princesses and princes back, which meant she had reclaimed the throne. She was queen now. The librarian got up, bowed to the queen and left, going home for the day, grateful the world of Spring was conquered and all mud and dung and manure and shackles and chains were thrown away and evergreen trees and brooks and springs and waterfalls and roses and lilies all blossomed and became full and ripe and an apple could be eaten and savored by a deer walking on a cold crisp morning smelling of new dew. She told her husband, who stood there wondering how she could’ve had visited a world full of monsters and gremlins and princesses and princes and animals talking back to the enemies’ animals that had stolen their joy and love of life. Black horses spewing hateful words hotter than lava that had erupted out from their stomachs and horses with manes flickering with fire or horses with real manes that flickered like fire.

The enemy really hated the joy and life of the world of Winter.

But the librarian said that she had no interest in staying in this cold, drab house. She grabbed a pen and wrote, renovating the home. When the husband stared in awe at the librarian’s ability to do such a thing, he turned on her.

“How’re we supposed to pay the bills?” He growled.

“I just sold our home.”

She handed him some money. It was real. The husband squished his face together so that it was of confusion and, reluctantly, gladness. Then he looked at her suspiciously. “Are you…?”

“No. I’m the same librarian I was. Just a little more excited about my life.”

She nodded, and smiled. And walked up to her husband.

“Tomorrow, I’ll keep writing. And write until I publish that novel. This novel.”

Years lapsed before the novel was published. The librarian, cute with her white wispy pixie-cut hair and bright blue eyes, was approached by her husband. He was standing in their bedroom with disgustingly muddy boots and a coat sopping wet.

“It’s raining outside.”

“Yep!” She nodded, putting the phone down after hanging up. “That was our niece. She said she loved that book. She wants all her friends at school to read it.”

“Okay. But…” The husband walked up to the wife, and threw his hands around her neck. “Dear, I want to say sorry. For everything.”

The wife almost gagged. “Hon—you smell!”

“Yeah.” He let go, and stepped back. “Let me clean up.”

As he took a shower and then sat on the couch, the man asked the woman whether he could write like her—or if he could do anything. He saw all these other men at work be a wonderful husband to his wife and whether he could do anything to imitate that? Or at least be that husband?

“Then do so. I can’t make you. I can’t write you.”

He nodded. Then over the months, he told her he was working on it, going to marriage counseling with her and, days she couldn’t, he made the trip himself. And when he couldn’t, she did, making the trips herself. But never forgetting to write him letters.

And he never forgot to do his duty as—

“A husband who loves me, regardless of the worlds I get so sucked into as I write and write and write!”

The librarian was sitting in front of her niece and her mother, reading her novel to her and her friends at the sleepover that weekend. Everyone laughed at the funny parts, was quiet at the sad parts and cheered with the wars’ endings.

But the biggest war of all, the librarian told her niece and all her friends snuggled up in their sleeping bags, was ended.

What war was that? One of the girls asked.

The librarian gave the girl a copy of her novel.

“Find out and see!”