“Reminds me of waravers,” he notes. “Creatures made of water, living by moonlight.”
“Waravers, werewolves. Similar sound. That has to be where I took the idea.”
Many of my stories borrowed characters from each other, recycling favorite titles. I’ve got a “Tale of Elixir” about an actual drinkable elixir and a “Tale of Elixir” about a princenamedElixir. What an adventure, to tumble through words however I wanted, rolling down hills of them, the story growing bigger and wilder around me like a snowball that picks up more of the world as it goes. “Baby Zelda was quite a prolific writer,” he says.
“Easy to write fast when you don’t have to care about spelling. Or plot. Or an ending.” I grin at him, which he mirrors. “I don’t think I actually completed a manuscript until I was a teenager, and it couldn’t have been longer than twenty thousand words. I burned it a week later because I’d named one of the characters after a guy I had a crush on and couldn’t risk anyone finding out.”
“I didn’t start writing until I was maybe twenty-two or twenty-three,” Morgan tells me. “I started with online reviews, just for fun. These long, stupid think pieces about pizza cutters or whatever I’d ordered. It turned into fiction exercises—like, I’d say that a shower cap I bought made me have dreams aboutThe Sopranosevery night, or I’d complain that my bicycle arrived without a built-in toaster, as if that was the standard. Some of my posts got taken down for not being verified purchases.”
“Ofcoursethat would be your journalism origin story,” I say, doubling over. Morgan blushes with pleasure to have made me laugh. “You troll.”
“Those reviews weren’t a total waste of time, turns out. I printed a few to show theMoonville Tribunewhen I applied, and they liked them.” He tilts his head. “To be fair, they had no choice but to hire me because they were understaffed and desperate, but still!”
“And now you’re the entire newspaper,” I say simply.
There’s no disguising the admiration in my voice, and Morgan stands two inches taller. He straightens an invisible bow tie. “And now I’m the entire newspaper. Speaking of which, if you’re ever looking for a side gig, you should write serialized short stories for theMoonville Tribune. We don’t have the budget to pay you much, but it could be fun.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I spy a familiar spine on the shelf, this one of a published book. “The Magnificent Mummy Maker!Ilovedthis one. I forced Luna to read it, too. Then Luna forced me to read that.” I point outThe Forestwifeby Theresa Tomlinson. “We still trade book recommendations.”
“Add me to that group chat, please.” He thumbs throughThe Time-Travelling Cat. “I think I read this when I was in elementary school.”
“Ooooh, yes, me, too.” I scan the cover and am instantly transported to second grade, curled up on a beanbag in Mrs. Kipley’s classroom. Reading for Pizza Hut’s BOOK IT! program. I can still taste the personal pan pizza.
We study copyright pages to discern how old some of these are, impressed by the condition we’ve found them in.
“How aren’t they moldy?” I exclaim. “The pages aren’t warped, the paper doesn’t feel funky.” I bring a book to my nose. “Doesn’t smell funky, either.”
“While we’re on the topic,howdid you carry all this out here and not get lost? I can’t hear any cars, so there’s no way we’re close to town.”
“I’d fill up my backpack. I really couldn’t tell you how I didn’t get lost. The way I remember it, the trail here used to be straightforward, easy to access.” I didn’t only bring books. I nicked trinkets from home and the shop to decorate my library with: flattened souvenir pennies, a locket necklace, one of Grandma’s hats, buttons, beads, keys, and lenticular stickers with images that change when tilted. A blanket, too, that’s stiff as plastic and partially disintegrated now. All of it is dirty and decomposing.
But the books…
The books are impeccably preserved.
“I’m sorry, but this is precious.” Morgan braces himself for my wrath. “Papaya, you’re adorable. I know you don’t want to be. I know you think you’re a sentient knife. But this is the cutest thing I have seen, ever.”
I grumble, secretly pleased. “Young Zelda would have been happy to know I’m visiting as an adult who has real published books on real shelves.” My chest tightens as I open another notebook, titledThe Zany Adventures of Zoey Werewolf. “She dreamed of seeing our name in this library someday.”
Morgan brightens. “Young Zelda is about to watch her dreams become realized.”
“Oh?” I pitch forward, curious, as he unzips his bag. Removes a paperback copy ofThe Heartbreak Vampire.
I stare at it. My name on the spine.
Zelda Tempestnext toR. L. Stine. The child in me jumpsup and down. She runs and twirls, arms outspread. She can’t believe we’ve done it, we’vemadeit, and even if I never publish another book again, I’ll always have achieved this.
“Now these are what I consider the classics,” Morgan tells Forte as he exhumes Goosebumps books. “The Ghost Next Door. Ghost Beach. Say Cheese and Die!I inhaled these sorts of books. No wonder I turned out like this.”
Morgan and I rest against the Traveler’s Library. He audibly wonders who put the lamp here if I didn’t, and how the books are still in such good condition. Then he readsGhost Beachaloud to me until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore, nodding off.
When I returnGhost Beachto the shelf, I slide offThe Heartbreak Vampire. It is the most unnerving déjà vu, to be back here again, standing right at the brink of a story. Preparing to tumble in.
I make myself comfortable at the foot of the lamppost, taking in the cover of my book anew, flushed green in a magical glow. How many other humans all over the world have held this in their hands, looking at this same cover?
I turn the pages. Title, dedication.
This one’s for Dottie, who taught me about magic.
