“Halt!” I said, with a snap of my covers, and commanded, “Release her, goblins!” For a moment I thought I’d been victorious, for their pulling had stopped with only her feet through the cabinet’s doorway. But still their knobbly fingers were clasped about her ankles, and just within the tunnel, from beneath the long, sharp shadows of their noses, came their toothy sniggerings.

  “Wass diss, a wee book?” said a goblin, the word ‘book’ popping wetly from his lips

  “A wee talkin’ book,” added the second, his voice tinged with both greed and uncertainty, “neva see a wee talkin’ book befo’.”

  My curiosity roused with the implication hidden in his statement: he'd seen other talking books before, bigger than me. I had to know more, but I would not forgo my resolutions. “Before we proceed,” I said, “please, what are your names?”

  The two goblins turned to each other, then shrugged, and answered in turn.

  “Ragsies,” said the one holding Fen’s right foot

  “Goofin,” said the one holding her left.

  “Very well,” I acknowledged, “Ragsies, Goofin, I am Book, and I am the guardian of this girl. I beseech you to release her at once, and this ordeal will be done before it has chance to worsen.” If nothing else, I had stumped the goblins into silence. By their stupor, it was clear they had never been spoken to in such a way by such a person. I swelled, confident that I’d settled the situation. But there came from Fen a grimaced whimper in her sleep, for the goblins had tightened their grip and resumed dragging her into the tunnel.

  And as they pulled, they spoke with the rhythm of Fen dragging on the floor.

  “Miss twenty deep asleep -” said Ragsies.

  “And a wee book what can speak -” said Goofin.

  “We take ‘em back -”

  “To goblin stash -”

  “As giftsies for the Queen!” they finished together with excitement.

  Fen was now sunken to her waist in shadow, her hands caught on the tunnel’s entrance so they rose limply along her sides. And yet, though the situation was dire, I’ll always remember this first encounter with the goblins fondly, for their crude rhythm and rhymes awoke in me the first burgeonings of poetry.

  “Let her go -” I said, quietly, then raised my voice.

  “Let her go or you’ll discover

  What lies in wait between my covers!

  LET HER GO!”

  Whether the poetry had anything to do with what happened next, I’m not sure, for I was barely aware of what I did. As I spoke, my heart reached out like angry hands, grasped my thoughts and wrung them like wet dishcloths, then, with my last word, lashed out with these as whips.

  With a clap, a flash of light, and an involuntary swoop of my covers, I was suddenly tumbling up and back through the air. A screech of dismay from Ragsies and Goofin was cut short by a loud crunch, and I thudded down atop the highest box of a stack.

  Quickly I stood and looked down at the scene below. At once I was relieved, for Fen was there, still sleeping. By the force of whatever I’d done, she’d slid away from the cabinet on her back, and was now comfortably propped on the heap of jute sacks, the arrow of the upside down ‘this way up’ pointing to her head. The cabinet, along with the entrance to the tunnel, had crumpled shut, with no sign of the goblins. And, still floating where Fen had placed it, the golden feather, its barbs having drifted so its shape was puffed out and diffuse.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  From my perch atop the boxes, I surveyed the rest of the room. In the gloom I could just make out a door, which, considering the thickly strung cobwebs and unbothered carpet of dust in its sweep, had possibly forgotten it was a door. We were safe from being discovered here, for now.

  At last, I leaned against a mess of rags, and finally breathed out. My first confrontation, already resolved, had been an apparent success. I hesitated to give myself credit, but since there were none with whom to share it, I indulged my pride. Not only had I saved Fen from being kidnapped by goblins, she was also still sleeping soundly. And I’d learned the goblins’ names, and that they had a Queen, and that perhaps other talking books existed. To crown it off, I’d somehow chased away Ragsies and Goofin, but how? My mind burned with a question, seemingly directed to my now sheepish heart: had I done magic?

  Unintentionally, I’d attacked. My thoughts had been implicated, like when I’d twisted them into a line to draw in Fen, but there had been something more… Emotions, surging up from my heart. Anger and fear had reached up into my mind like angry hands. They’d taken hold of my thoughts, wrung them out like a wet dish cloth, and used them as a whip. Had I really collapsed the cabinet, perhaps hurting Ragsies and Goofin in the process? I’d lost control, and suddenly my victory was replaced by doubt. By losing control, I’d risked hurting Fen all over again.

  From atop the stack, I kept watch over Fen, her breath slow and constant, as my thoughts tumbled about. The feather’s barbs had drifted wide now, and some had nearly reached me. I let my gaze follow one as it wandered above the boxes, casting its sliver of light along a wooden plank, up to a small, lonely shelf, and there… It took a while for my focus to turn away from my thoughts. By the time it did my whole body was leaning forward in intrigue, for there was, on the shelf, beneath a rag, the unmistakable shape of a book’s corner.

  Beyond myself, I inched forward, and teetered on the box’s edge before I realized what I was doing and stepped back. Other barbs had glided near, and by their glow I saw… A highlighted vision, a trajectory to reach the book.

  With this discovery, my worries of having lost control evaporated. All I could think of was the importance of getting to that book. All my resolutions, vows, and promises would be for naught if I remained ignorant to who I was and what my powers were. And I knew the only way to truly know would be to Read. More. Books.

  And so, with a glance at Fen’s sleeping form, I set off. First, I snapped my covers experimentally, and found I could lift up a short height. In this way, I jumped up atop the mess of rags. Already the book on the shelf seemed closer, and I edged forward. Again I jumped over to a crate, then crept precariously along the plank. In the middle it wobbled, and I almost toppled off, but by widening my stance slightly I found stability and continued. From there I made another little jump down to a thick picture frame, and edged along carefully, leaning against the wall. All the while, that mysterious book came nearer, and I had to pull myself away from looking at it to concentrate on my balance. The last segment of the trajectory, a wide gap to reach the shelf. If I fell, I’d risk getting hurt, or stuck behind a box, or making noise that would wake Fen. But there was no turning back now, and the book was so close…

  I sharpened my focus, and leapt.

  I thudded down hard and slid across the shelf, nearly slipping off the edge before I came to a stop. At once I was standing, and threw the rag off the shelf, and at last revealed the book. I gasped, taken aback and distraught, for what I saw horrified me. There was such grime and dust that its cover was entirely illegible. And, far worse, the other cover, along with some pages, had been ripped away, leaving the spine and binding terribly frayed.

  I steadied myself against the wall. I couldn’t even tell if I was looking at its front or back. This was… This was an atrocity.

  With a smart snap of my covers, I blew away a layer of dust. In the grime was revealed a once fine, green lettering, and a patterned field of cutlery and cookware that was now scorched. Though not as big as The Magic Initiate, this book was still at least twenty times my size, and I could just barely read its name:

  The Kitchen Almanac

  Volume 3 - Soups and Broths

  Aside from this, no other writing had survived on the cover or spine. I lay my corner upon its cover, and remained that way for a while. How could such a beautiful book, or any book for that matter, be reduced in this way? I struggled with the concept, and my heart pulsed its outrage.

  It was up to me, now. I would honor this book. I would read it, know it, and remember it.

  I propped myself beneath its cover and flipped it over. With reverence, I stood before The Kitchen Almanac, and opened my pages.