20 April 2012
CHAPTER 1 LOOK, A BOOK... We are all made of stories... - Ancient Arcadian belief
Magic arrows are rare and yet, here was one, soaring high in the sky, piercing cloud after pillowy cloud. As far as magic arrows are concerned, this was no ordinary "found in an enchanted grotto" magic arrow. It was a gryphon-feathered, emerald-dusted cherrywood shaft with a cinnabar tip, truly state of the art. It could hit the broad side of a barn as far away as a full epoch forward or backwards in time. Mr. Vitus H. Bellamy, mayor of a sleepy little West Coast university town called Rancho Arroyo, never concerned himself much with magic arrows. What concerned him, at the moment, was whether or not he had remembered to pack his gavel. He fiddled around his satchel until he found it and sat back, relieved, among fellow councilors at the front of a crowd of gathering townsfolk who were milling about the space, the town's fabulous ballroom, located in an older three-story art-deco building known as the Arroyo Room Ballroom & Banquet Hall. The town of Rancho Arroyo was officially a small city, and grew out of the discovery of gold, and then the farming of world-class wheat grains, and then further made it on the map after it's college for teachers grew into a small university of colleges, properly equiped with libraries, professors and administrators. Mr. Bellamy had no claim to any kind of fame other than that of being an outspoken mayor, but under certain conditions and prompted by a couple pints of the local ale... well, let’s just say he was notorious for repeating a story about his father, who was so stubborn, "he died standing up, leaning against the mantlepiece, just to prove it could be done." Many suspected the story had been borrowed, but never-the-less, enjoyed the rambling narrations that would ensue. Miss Deloris Pratter was never one for the telling, nor the listening of tall tales such as the mayor's. In fact, she could barely talk about anything except her job as a city clerk, so she mostly sat alone, the present moment being no exception as she fidgeted her fingers in her front row seat. Occasionally, she glanced up from her hands to assess the councilors. Just a week prior, she had attained the notoriety of being the only city clerk working late enough to have witnessed the lone perpetrator who transformed their town hall into a smoldering pile of ash. Sketch artists worked to translate her memories into wanted posters which she took great delight in passing around. What made Miss Pratter even more proud was that she came from a distinguished lineage, which she played up immensely as her fallback in every conversation. Most of the townsfolk, however, secretly knew that she took after one particular ancestral line surprisingly well known by all, except her. It was discovered that she was related to a 'mad hatter'. In fact, a great-great-grandfather of hers, from the 1800s, specialized in the use of mercuric nitrate to turn wool fibers into hats. This long exposure to the chemical caused him, and many others in the hat making trade, to suffer from twitching muscles, incoherent speech, and confused minds. Miss Pratter exhibited all of these traits, and although her condition was more the result of suffering too many spankings as a child, the story leaked out and she was thenceforth referred to as "that Miss Pratter... mad as a hatter." The sudden contact of eyes between Mayor Bellamy and Miss Pratter as they both looked up from their watches signaled that the meeting was about to begin. With a raised brow, he began checking his grip on the gavel... And the while, that magic arrow had made great distance and was now just seconds from reaching its target. As those seconds ticked down, three things happened all at once. The arrow, in all its magiosity, passed right through the roof and ceiling of the Arroyo Room and slammed into the door of the small balcony overlooking the ballroom, squarely impaling itself just above the door knob. Mr. Bellamy's gavel slammed down with a loud whack masking the sound of the impacting arrow. And, in the attic loft just beyond the balcony door, young Arthur Ansome awoke with a jolt... that jolt a person feels when they realize that they are running very, very late.
On that same day, a book came into a bookseller's little shop. One that was, without a doubt, like no other. It was the kind of book that inspires collectors to open bookshops, hoping they might, one day, acquire such a treasure. Alas, this was the kind of book that arrived, but at the wrong time for this bookseller to appreciate. For just minutes prior, Mr. Leroy Malf, owner of the Arroyo Room and proprietor of Monk & Quill Rare Books and Undiscovered Manuscripts, was tapping the face of his pocket watch while wondering at what pace he would have to take in order to make his upcoming appointment. Mr. Malf often attended special book auctions, and his policy was to never, under any circumstances, allow his little bookshop to be closed during regular business hours. It really would be an injustice for those who had journeyed the distance just to find the shop, its dark-green door and polished window-plates, shut with shades drawn. A book, in itself, could elevate the reader to new enlightenment but Mr. Malf fully appreciated the collector's need to simply engage in the search. Book collectors devoted their entire lives to the search of mythical volumes, and Mr. Malf's little bookshop catered to this need. Five thousand three hundred and twenty or so of the world's rarest books were stacked from floor to ceiling like a tiny cathedral devoted to the printed word. Elsewhere at that moment, Arthur, a slender and bookish fourteen year-old with brown hair, rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he climbed out of bed. He wasn't overly tall nor was he underly short, but maybe an inch outside of average. And he and his uncle had an agreement... Arthur watched the bookshop whenever his uncle was unable to avoid conducting business outside the shop. And in return, Arthur was allowed to explore anywhere in the Arroyo Room, as long as it didn't disturb the patrons. And, best of all, Arthur was allowed to use the attic loft for his bedroom even though the primary living quarters shared space at the back of the second floor behind the kitchen and banquet hall.
The attic loft, where Arthur presently stood assessing his wardrobe, housed many doors. A door along one wall led to a balcony overlooking the ballroom that had just echoed with the rap of a gavel. Another provided access to the gigantic heater and chiller used to control the temperature of the ballroom. And the other doors, all varying in size, opened to a variety of closets and were still labeled with the names of organizations like the "Grand Sirs in Perpetuity," "The Ladies of the Seven Stars," "The Commanders in Court," and "The Emblazoned Knights of the Rose." And, even though the labels were historic evidence that fraternal organizations once inhabited the building, the closets themselves were empty of anything interesting. The loft was quaint with all of its doors but what made it most precious to Arthur was that it also housed a library with every bit of remaining wall-space devoted to mahogany bookshelves that were filled with books of every size and color. It had become his personal collection after his parents disappeared at a time when Arthur was too young to remember anything. One thing, however, Arthur had always remembered since, was always feeling more at home in the loft, amongst the books, than anywhere else. Arthur had to hurry as he worried to himself, I'll probably run into someone on the way down making me even more late. Arthur threw on his tapered blue-jeans, the ones with the broken top-button so he had to cinch them up, as usual, with a belt. Next came a blank white t-shirt, flat-bottomed sneakers and his signature, a navy blue zip-up cardigan sweater. He knew he should assess the traffic and so he quietly opened the door leading to the balcony just enough to peak through and snoop into the ballroom. It was a packed room. "...and with your support and generous pledges, we will rebuild the town hall before the spring parade..." echoed a booming voice that Arthur recognized as Mayor Bellamy. The voice continued after a muffled question, "No sir. We sifted through the ashes and found no sign of the perpetrator and must presume that the suspect, witnessed by our very own Miss Pratter, must have escaped with his life." And again the mayor responded, "Well... the authorities consider him to be a fugitive and, at present, the search for him continues." Town meetings were a common occurrence since the Town Hall had been the scene of a mysterious incident one week ago, leaving it thoroughly obliterated. The initial investigation was over, but the cleanup of the site had only just commenced. And, in the meantime, the city council had no choice but to meet with the public at the Arroyo Room, in the ballroom just outside of Arthur's small sleeping quarters. Traffic could be heavy, Arthur thought to himself as he softly closed the balcony door and began to make his way down to the ballroom level. Just past the exit of the loft, a small and partly hidden flight of stairs led downward and opened into the main stairwell where, to Arthur's delight, not a person was in sight. He decided that the elevator would give him the most cover so he lunged for the call button. And there, he waited... and waited... and waited. A lady passed by on her way from the ballroom to the restrooms, ignoring Arthur where he stood trying to disappear. After thirty excruciating seconds, Arthur changed his plan and darted for the stairs. With the stealth and dexterity of an undercover agent, he crept down to the dining hall located on the second floor below. As Arthur reached the second-floor landing, he heard the familiar sounds of vegetables being chopped eminating from the
Arthur Ansome and the Arcadian Club • Opuss № I