The Quest

A story of authors and adventure

“OK, I’ll pick you up in about an hour.” George’s mother licks her thumb, wipes a smudge of dirt off his nose. “You’ll be OK?”

He nods.

“I’m just across the way in the supermarket if you need me.”

Another nod.

His mother smiles. “Have fun.”

She grabs a shopping cart, leaves George there. He turns, braces himself, readies for battle. Before him: the enemy stronghold, the dungeon to be delved, the St Neots local library.

The quest was given to him over steaming bowls of stew, his friends all gathered together, their moment of camaraderie interrupted by a stranger. It was a new kid leaning over from his end of the dining-hall table. “You guys ever read Clive Barker?”

Of course they hadn’t. Barker was forbidden knowledge, kept out of reach beyond barriers, gauntlets, and guardians.

“That’s the real shit,” the stranger told them. “Read that, it’ll change your life.”

They all talked about trying to retrieve the book from the depths of the library, but talk was all it was. Until now. Until George accepted the quest.

Through the library gates then, and into enemy territory. The senior librarian perches at the circulation desk and her gaze pierces George on the threshold of her domain, her eyes like lamps on either side of her hawk-beak nose—a great, gray bird paused to swoop.

George almost turns right there, almost runs right then. But he clenches his nerve in his balled fist and forces himself to step forward. She watches him, but she does not launch herself. He has not attracted her ire yet.

He walks toward the children’s section, with its primary colors and childish narratives. He has started to understand now how this place holds him back. How the adults in his life are trying to chain him in simplicity. He has started to yearn to break free.

He pulls a book from the shelf, still under the head librarian’s watchful gaze. Then doors swish, her head flicks away, and George drops the book. He darts deeper in. When the librarian looks back, he’s gone.

Deeper in among the shelves now. George consults his hand-drawn map, cobbled together from word of mouth and rumor. Carefully, he navigates the chasms of books, loses himself in a Dewey-Decimal labyrinth.

He turns one corner, realizes he has made a mistake. Three hulking creatures loom before him, rough-skinned, sunken-eyed. They bare yellow teeth in savage smiles.

“You lost?” one of the teenagers says.

“You need your mommy?”

“You all alone?” asks the third.

They spread out to circle him.

George was not trained in combat like a knight or barbarian. He has only a small weapon. Still, he draws it now, grips it in his fist.

“Is that a fucking pencil?”

George lunges forward, stabs a teenager in the thigh. It howls. George breaks into a run.

The teenagers keep yelling. They mill and blunder after him. They swear their vengeance at the top of their lungs.

A screech silences them. The librarian has launched. She swoops toward them, the wings of her coat spreading out to either side. Silence and fear are left in her wake.

Behind George: the sound of the librarian’s attack; the teenagers’ desperate protests. George doesn’t dare look back as he races away.

Deeper in. Strange tomes surround him, written in languages he doesn’t understand. There are only a few lone figures back here. None look up as he passes, all lost in their personal hunts for esoteric knowledge.

Deeper in. Shadows lengthen. A clock strikes. His time runs short.

Deeper in. And then it is before him. His goal marked with a sign written in an ancient, dripping font: “Horror.”

He scans the shelves. Is it here? It must be here. But where? Decaying faces leer from ancient spines. Red letters drip gore. Monstrous fangs gnash at pages. His hands shake.

And there it is! He plucks his prize from the shelves, then darts away, almost stumbling, retreating among the cliffs of shelving, all sense of direction fleeing from him.

He wanders for what seems an age, trying to find his way out. His prize is clutched to his chest beneath his sweater, hidden from watchful gazes.

Only after he has abandoned hope does he see the exit. But either side of it stand twin sentinels. They see all. Know all. No matter where he hides the book, they will know he has it. They will sound the alarm.

The librarian’s gaze falls on him. His weapon feels small and useless in his pocket. All he has left is luck, and guile.

Back to the children’s section. He seizes a book at random, brings it to the librarian with trembling hands. The Clive Barker is pressed hard against his quivering chest. He is slick with sweat. The librarian’s eyes bore into him, flick to the children’s book’s cover.

“Is this appropriate?”

“My mum’s let me read it before.” Can she smell his lie? How far beyond human ken do her senses lie?

Her eyes peel back the layers of his soul. “Library card,” she says.

He almost loses his grip on the hidden Clive Barker, fumbling it to her. She swipes the card, stamps the book, hands both back to him. “There’s late fees if it’s overdue,” she says, but he’s already retreating. He can see his mother outside. He is so close.

He steps into the sentinels’ gaze.

And they scream, for they see his deception.

The librarian goes rigid, leans forward, eyes ablaze.

George waves the book she just signed out at her, shrugs helplessly. The sentinels bleat rage monosyllabically. The librarian narrows her eyes. But she hesitates. It is all the opening George needs, and all he will get.

George moves. He runs. He bursts into the sunlight, out into the fresh air, clutching his prize, an eight-year old Orpheus who has learned to never look back. And thus rewarded, George goes rushing off to meet all the adventures that lie ahead.