as if he had been expecting her for hours, or days, or even a much longer time, ago.
With tentative steps and ready to turn and run if required, Elli descended the stairs to the doorway and stood there, looking in. She still saw no one—just a narrow, but deep, room with a number of bookcases that seemed endless in their length.
“Hello?” she asked again.
“Come in, come in!”
Elli took one step into the room and noticed immediately a small man sitting at a very small wooden desk, his face bent over a large old book, the pages of which appeared to have been turned many times over the course of many years.
The man turned a page and then spun around in his chair to look at Elli over a pair of tiny horn-rimmed spectacles. The man, who she judged could not have been more than three feet in height, nor less than a hundred years of age, was dressed in a brown, threadbare robe that was tied at the waist, not unlike those worn by monks she had seen in pictures. And he had a very large head on top of which rested a rather precariously tilted tall, pointed hat. His face reminded Elli of the faces often depicted as those of the man in the moon. He had a wide mouth, a small pug nose, bulging cheeks, and long, half-closed eyes, except that his cheeks and mouth were scrunched toward the center of his face, as if the hands of an unseen mother were pushing them together out of anger at her child. He wore brown leather boots with a metal hook on the top of each upper sole.
The man jumped from his chair, held out a hand for Elli to shake, and said, “I’m Peterwinkle, and I understand that you are looking for a certain book of poetry.”
“Ye . . . yes,” Elli replied, with surprise in her voice. “But how did you know, Mr. . . . Mr. Peterwinkle?”
“No, no . . . it’s not Mr. or Winkle or Peter, just Peterwinkle—all one word! Please, just call me Peterwinkle,” he said politely, so as not to seem scolding toward Elli.
“So, Peterwinkle, how did you know I was looking for a book of poetry? Did the woman at the circulation desk tell you I might be coming, and is she angry with me? And are you angry with me?” Elli asked.
“Oh, heavens no, dear girl! No one is angry with you—at least,” he added soberly, with a faraway look in his eyes, “not at this moment.” And he smiled.
Eager to obtain the book and be on her way, Elli said, “I’m looking for a book by an Adams, entitled . . .”
“Yes,” interrupted Peterwinkle, “I know the book. By ‘Adams,’ with no first name, and the title being simply Poetry.”
“Why yes! But, how did you know?” Elli asked, incredulously.
“It’s the only book of poetry that in all these years has never been checked out. And the only person wanting this book would be the only person to have found me. And so, here you are. And so you must be . . . ?” he asked.
“Elli Adams,” she replied.
“Precisely! Finally!” Peterwinkle said, with a controlled and uncertain gleefulness. “And,” he added, in a voice suggesting that he had almost forgotten the most important part, “it is dedicated to you, by one who will have written the book a very long time ago!”
“To me? . . . and ‘will have been written?’” Elli asked, with complete puzzlement.
“Yes, most definitely! It says: ‘To Elli Adams, without whose life this book could not have been written.’ Now, the only problem, dear girl, is that I don’t have the book at this time.”
“You mean someone else has checked it out? Or . . . it’s lost?!” Elli asked.
“No, no, Elli. None of that,” Peterwinkle assured her. “No one else has it, and it most definitely is not lost.” He paused to sigh deeply, and then he continued, “It’s just that the book has not been written yet, I’m afraid to tell you.” He paused again, and then said, “And, the only question is whether it will be written. I have, you see, the book, with its covers and pages, but there is nothing written on them except, as I said, the title, the author, and the dedication to you.”
“Well,” Elli said, “this is all so very confusing, Peterwinkle, and I’m disappointed that you don’t have the book and that, obviously, I’m simply wasting both your time and mine. So, thank you, and I’ll be on my way,” she said while turning to go.
“But, Elli,” Peterwinkle replied, almost matter-of-factly, “the book will only have been written if you provide the story for the poet.”
Elli turned abruptly back to face the little man. “You’re frightening me now, Peterwinkle, and I shall be going at once,” Elli said as she turned to leave once more.
“Of course I’m frightening you, dear girl! The world is a frightening place, as you well know, and it’s understandable that you should be frightened by me and all that I’ve said, but that doesn’t mean you have to run from that which frightens you.” Peterwinkle smiled kindly at Elli, and made no gesture to suggest he would physically discourage her from leaving.
“Please, come in, Elli, and at least have a cup of tea or lemonade with me, and let me try both to un-confuse you and to un-frighten you.”
Elli turned again, and Peterwinkle motioned toward a small chair next to his desk. Elli sat down, but with the open door in her peripheral vision, just in case.
“Now, Elli, let me tell you a brief story, the rather lengthy ending of which I will have to leave for another time together. Oh, would you like some tea or lemonade?” Elli shook her head slightly, as if not even hearing the question.
“A long time ago, there was a very grand and beautiful queen named Taralina who ruled the world of Bairnmoor, imbuing it with her love and kindness that became the source of all well-being and happiness throughout the land. She thought little of herself, except as an instrument of all that was good for her people. She desired nothing in return but the love and affection of her people, asking only that they also love each other in the same fashion that she loved them. Prosperity prevailed for all her people for thousands of years, and there was not one who did not enjoy the favor of her rule.
“But, there were a few of her subjects who wanted more, who became envious of her position and power, and who decided to rise up against her. Those who rose against her, whom we will call the ‘insurrectionists,’ knew she had no army—no real defense—except perhaps her stone castle that was built and used for benevolent, not defensive, purposes.
“Of course, the insurrectionists knew there would likely be many who would rally to her defense, but they were clever, and played upon the minds and emotions of the queen’s subjects, telling them that the queen was withholding from them much that they could yet enjoy. There would be larger plots of land, bigger homes, more impressive machines to assist them in their work, and greater freedom to do as they pleased, especially the freedom to rule themselves.
“There ensued a great battle, and many lives were lost on both sides, but in the end the insurrectionists prevailed and then enslaved virtually the entirety of the people, rewarding with wealth and privilege those who advanced the insurrectionists’ rule and punishing those who resisted with terrific poverty, imprisonment, torture, and death.
“The Queen, who was thought to possess enormous power from an unknown source, was easily locked away in the deepest regions beneath the castle, where to this day she remains. No one knows for
