Chapter 1: In The Jaws of a Good Book

"Good evening, Catherine," came a familiar voice, surreptitiously injecting itself into Catherine's voyage with Captain Cook through the icy waters of the Bering Strait. That was strange, she thought to herself. Neither the words nor the voice seemed to belong to where she was. After fighting the impulse for a few moments, she reluctantly withdrew herself from her current literary adventure and returned to the land of reality, which landed her in the Cedarville branch of the Greene County Library, looking up at Graham Forster, the head librarian.

Graham was a congenial man of forty-nine with dark gray hair, tinged with silver streaks flaring out from either side of his face. He was always seen in rather loose-fitting sweater vests and wrinkled slacks, and upon seeing him for the first time, a person generally didn't find him or herself too interested in looking again. Graham had worked for the library since his teenage years, and like Catherine, his passion for books was his defining characteristic. Perhaps it was this fact that caused her to get along so famously with him. At any rate, he seldom approached her while she was reading, as he knew himself how unpleasant it was to be interrupted while immersed in a good book. Whenever he did, however, it was always an important matter.

Cat looked up at him and smiled at once, despite her recent discomfort in being jerked away from the arctic seas off the coast of Alaska. "Hello, Mr. Forster," she replied, sliding her faded, frayed canvas bookmark between the pages of her book and closing it. "You look better today. I see you've gotten over that cold you had last week."

"Oh yes, that's all but cleared up," he laughed, shooting her a tilted nod in thanks for her concern. "A nasty day like today is liable to send one into a relapse, though. That's one of the reasons why I was hoping I could talk you into leaving the library a little early today — because of the weather. It's been raining steadily now for a while, and the radio is broadcasting news of severe weather rolling in from the west. I'd hate for you to get caught in any of that on your way home today."

"Ah, I see," she sighed, glancing at one of the foggy windows and noticing the dim light that fought its way past the dense web of rivulets streaming down the panes of glass. "Maybe you're right. At the very least, I should try to keep from getting too wet. I have an umbrella with me, but it won't do me much good if it gets any windier."

"I'm glad you agree. Oh, and there was one other thing I wanted to speak to you about, if you have a moment. It won't take long."

"Oh? What is it?" she replied, piling together the sizable stack of books she intended to check out and take with her. "Does it involve that book you have there?"

"As a matter of fact, it does," he replied with a knowing smile. "You see, you've been such a faithful patron here for years, and there's no one I'd trust more with the well-being of any of our books than you. Your love of good literature is a welcome asset to our library, and as a way of thanking you, I was hoping you might accept this as a gift. It isn't much, really - just a book that I was given as a boy by the librarian who worked here then - but it means a great deal to me, and I think you'll enjoy it as much as I have. It's a book that you can really get yourself lost in."

"I don't know what to say!" she cried, accepting the book from him and inspecting it. It was about sixteen inches tall by ten inches wide, and it was bound in blotchy, faded red leather. The spine was creased and cracked so that nothing could be read from the broken flecks of gold that had at one time been lettering. Likewise, the front cover had been damaged and torn, and whatever lettering had been there had either been torn off or was faded and crumbled into nonexistence. It was close to two inches thick, and judging by the uneven, coarsely-grained pages, she judged it enclosed something on the order of three hundred or more leaves of parchment inside. It was a very curious, ancient-looking volume indeed, and she wanted very much to open it and investigate, but she had better manners than that. "Thank you, Mr. Forster! Is it really all right?"

"I believe it is," he chuckled. "Of all the people I've seen come and go in this library, you're by far the one I'd trust this to more than anyone. One thing, though; don't open it here. Take it home with you and make yourself comfortable enough to sit for a good while. Once you start this, you may have quite some difficulty stopping."

"That's my kind of book," she laughed, grinning at him and setting it on her stack of books with an interested glance. "I may just read it tonight. It'll be perfect for a wet, unpleasant day like this. What is it about?"

"It is called 'The Grammarian, ' and rather than spoil any of it for you, I'll let you read it and find out. I guarantee that once you open it, you'll be unable to tear yourself away. Now then, if you're ready, I'll check out your other selections for you and you can be on your way."

Thanking him again, Catherine grabbed her coat and umbrella while Graham picked up her stack of books and carried it to the checkout counter. He gave her some plastic bags to wrap everything in, and he waved at her on her way out.

"Good luck!" he called as she hesitated just inches away from the pouring rain. She laughed and grinned back at him before opening her umbrella and pushing her way out into the deluge. "You're going to want all the luck you can get," he chuckled, shaking his head and sitting back in his chair with a wistful grin. "I have a hunch you won't need it, though."

After a messy drive home, Catherine raced through the car port into the garage, where she shook out her umbrella and set it by the back door. She entered the small, two-bedroom house without announcement, taking her waterlogged shoes off at the door and trying not to rustle her bags too noisily as she crept down the hall past the kitchen. A greeting of surprise stopped her sneaky venture, however, and she gritted her teeth in frustration.

"Cat!" her mother cried from the kitchen as she tiptoed past. "You're home early! Good! Why don't you come help me peel potatoes? We're going to have a roast tonight, and your dad's invited some of his coworkers over for dinner, so we need to make a lot."

"Okay," she called back, secretly cursing under her breath. "Just let me put my books in my room and I'll be right there."

"Don't make me come get you later," her mom laughed at her as she trudged the rest of her way to her room, doomed to set aside her favorite pastime to do some mindless chores, as usual. Her mother meant well, but she didn't really look at reading in the same light that Catherine did. To her pretty, bubbly mother, reading was just something that her little girl did because she didn't have a boyfriend to keep her busy. The fact that her mother rarely read more than the blurbs of text that flashed on the TV screen didn't really mean that she thought reading was useless, but she also didn't see how it could possibly be as engrossing as romantic interludes, wild parties, and other things she had done when she had been Cat's age.

They were as different as two related women could possibly be. While Melody Richards was perky, bouncy, and still very beautiful in her mid-life years, her daughter Catherine seemed to be as unremarkable and plain as was humanly possible for a child of hers to be. She wore her long, straight brown hair in a loose braid, and she dressed in frumpy, baggy clothes that obliterated nearly all thought that she might have a figure, despite the fact that she really wasn't all that badly built. She had inherited her mother's slight frame and provocative curves, but she made every effort — whether conscious or not — to hide them from the world. She didn't put much emphasis on what others thought of her, since the real world and its denizens were never as interesting or important to her as those within her beloved books. She was already nineteen years old, and she had never once been out on a date, and hadn't even made that many friends. She didn't have any at all at the moment, as the ones from high school had all gone off to college, and as her family had not been able to afford to send her, she had been left behind to read her books and try not to think about her future.

Her father often pointed this lack of vision of hers out to her, and he was constantly giving her lectures on how she needed to get a job and help out with the expenses if she wanted to continue to live at home. Although she was welcome to stay with them as long as she wanted, she did feel badly about not wanting to contribute. It was so difficult to want to, though, when the world beyond her room was so boring and ordinary. Nothing ever happened to her that was as exciting as the events in books, so what incentive was there for her to go out there more than was absolutely necessary? The only place she actively visited was the library, and if she had been able to get a job there, it would have been about as good as it would get for her. However, the library was small, as was the town that supported it, and they already had all the help they needed. If she wanted a job, she had to be willing to work entry level at much less attractive locations, like a fast food restaurant or a grocery store. She hated the idea of having to get up every day and face mindless drudgery like that. School had been only mildly tolerable, as she coasted from class to class until she was able to retreat to the library and escape into one of her literary fantasies. Work was bound to be even worse.

She made a point of saving her sigh of discontent until she returned to the kitchen, and she scowled at her mother while she was given instructions on which group of potatoes was hers, and where she should stand to peel them, so as to stay out of her mother's way. She tried to imagine herself a tragic waif in a castle scullery, forced to endure the hardships of indentured servitude brought on by a poverty-stricken birth. She had almost convinced herself when her mother interrupted her self-pitying fantasy with her usual round of prodding.