More Than Fiction

My stomach did an excited flip as my eyes landed on the book’s spine. Part Three. I’d waited an excruciating week for the library to order it in, part two playing over and over in my head and keeping my heart poised on the cusp of breaking. I had seen it in the bookshop. I don’t know why I kept torturing myself by returning to my old sanctuary, where the call of fresh, crisp books called to me from the shelves, begging me to take them home. Money had been a delicate issue for a while, and I knew that the library would fulfil my needs if I could be patient.

The book was finally here, and I eagerly pulled it from the shelf, its freshly adorned plastic cover keeping it relatively safe from my greedy fingers. I collapsed immediately onto a nearby bean bag and opened it, prepared for magic. I was not prepared for the little black book that flopped neatly into my lap, making me jump. Torn between a desperate need for cliff-hanger alleviation and intense curiosity, I decided that the slim, black book would be a quick read, a moment of my time, and popped the epic fantasy tome down. The small book’s shimmering black cover was sturdy, and a length of elastic kept the pages well pressed. I unhooked the band and peeled it open.

In case of loss, please return to:

11 27 05 23

As a reward: $ 20,000

Twenty thousand dollars for a small notebook! Were the secrets of America stored in this thing? I was assuming the book belonged to an American, judging by the currency, but how had it ended up inside a high fantasy adventure in a small library in Oxford, England? I studied the numbers written in place of a name or address. A US phone number perhaps? It was short and certainly wouldn’t connect to anyone in the UK. What the heck, I pulled out my phone and entered the numbers anyway, feeling a familiar, nervous stab in my gut as I contemplated talking to a stranger on the phone.

"The number you have dialled has not been recognised…" a polite, automated voice informed me.

I tried the number again but with three fives added at the start. If the movies had taught me anything, it was that American phone numbers started with a bunch of fives. It was a wildly hopeful attempt.

"The number you have dialled has not been recognised…"

I gave up on that idea and turned the page of the notebook. On the left was a short title:

The Books That Made Me.

On the right, the title was numbered.

1. Unknown Title

I read the first couple of sentences.

The earliest book that has registered emotion in my memory is one that I unfortunately cannot remember the title of, and no amount of rephrased google searches will help me uncover. I think I was about eight years old and terrified of a great, rocky stack, looming out of the sea in the remote northern islands of Scotland, where a stranded boy discovers a skeleton.

That did sound a little eerie for eight-year-old reading. I imagined that at that age, I was somewhere between the adventures of Biff, Chip and Kipper in The Magic Key and Harry Potter. I turned the page.

2. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling (Obviously)

Ah, of course. I started skimming through the notebook, finding personal reviews of thirty books, many of which were titles I adored and many of which I hadn’t heard, a thrill of excitement rushing through me at finding recommendations from someone who potentially shared my taste in fantasy.

I flicked back to that first page, where twenty thousand dollars stood out among the odd numbers. It must be some sort of personal joke. I couldn’t see how a book of reviews could be worth so much unless… unless this handwritten book of insights came from a world-famous author… such as Maria Mayton, whose bestselling novel this slip of a book had fallen out of. No. I mean, how could it? She wouldn’t have come into contact with the majority of copies, never mind this particular one destined for a nondescript library.

I stared at those numbers again. Double digits separated by a small space, all relatively low in value. In fact, less than the number of reviews contained in the book. An idea hit me as I stared at the number eleven and I quickly leafed through the pages until I reached the eleventh review.

11. Elantris by Brandon Sanderson

The mysterious author raved about this one, finding the magic system particularly impressive and pleasing. The final line of the review was interesting… and cryptic.

I named my home in the spirit of Elantris.

The mention of the mysterious author’s home had intrigued me, hoping it would provide me with clues to their whereabouts.

I reread the numbers at the start and skipped to entry twenty-seven.

27. Sabriel by Garth Nix

The final lines of the review mentioned the author’s home again.

I didn’t want the road to my home to be built, but I had no choice. Still, I was allowed to name it and names are powerful. I hoped that the sorrowful bell would keep people away, warning them of a deep death from which they would never return.

Well, that was dark, and even more confusing. But I still thought that there was something to these numbers. The other reviews didn’t have anything as strange written within them. I moved to the fifth review.

5. The Belgariad by David Eddings

I am pleased to share my home with Belgarion, although it is not quite the citadel I would’ve liked, and my throne is not backed by a sword of blue flame.

Again, a mention of the home but again, the cryptic clue gave nothing away. I had a feeling I would have to read these books to figure all this out. I looked for the last clue.

23. His Dark Materials by Phillip Pullman

Now this one I had to know! I skimmed the neat writing.

I share my city with Lyra, but not my world.

Oxford! Lyra lived in Oxford, as did I. If I were right about these numbers and these clues then I basically held a treasure map that I could feasibly follow. Thankful that I was in the library, where numerous books could be freely accessed, I hopped up and began my search.

"Sanderson, Sanderson," I muttered as I dragged by finger along the spines in alphabetical order. Found it! Elantris by Brandon Sanderson. I quickly located Sabriel by Garth Nix but stumbled at The Belgariad by David Eddings. It was five books! Which was the one I needed? I took them all.

I slipped the little, black book back into Maria Mayton’s epic and stacked up my finds, thrilled at the prospect of so much reading. The librarian raised her eyebrows at my extensive collection but thankfully didn’t restrict me. How would I have been able to choose? My bag was heavy as I headed home but my heart was alight with excitement.

***

I had all the answers. I was right. I grinned as I stared at the small plaque at the bottom of a sloping drive, leading up to a large, red brick house. It was Rao House, named after the spirit of Elantris, on Astarael Road, the sorrowful death bell, in the village of Riva, home of the Rivan King, in the Oxford that wasn’t Lyra’s. The answers had been in the books and the books were pure magic. The adventure had been worth it just to uncover such incredible stories, but I had to meet the mastermind behind it all. I walked up the driveway, anticipation clenching my gut as I arrived at the door and rang the bell. I waited an excruciating minute before the door opened silently.

“Can I help you?” Her American accent was full of suspicion, as were the dark eyes that peered at me from below a heavy fringe of black hair.

“I…,” the ludicrous situation suddenly made me nervous, “I think I have something that belongs to you.”

A slim eyebrow quirked up, but the suspicious look remained. I pulled the little, black book from my bag and held it out. The woman’s eyes widened as her long, slim fingers grasped the small tome and flicked it open.

“Are you… Maria Mayton?” I asked tentatively.

“I am.” She tore her eyes from the notebook to study me, her face stern.

“I… Your writing is incredible and if that is your book, I just want to say thank you. Your recommendations were some of the best books I’ve ever read.”

She said nothing for an awkward length of time and her fierce expression made me feel unwelcome. I turned to leave, embarrassed and disappointed.

“What would you do with twenty thousand dollars?” she asked suddenly.

“Well,” I started, turning back to face her, “I’d sort out the bills, but then I’d buy books.”

Her expression transformed into a bright smile, surprising me, as I wobbled on the edge of the doorstep, about to flee.

“One moment.” She slipped away into a dark corridor as I peered in, intrigued. She returned shortly with a chequebook and asked for my name. Her smile remained as she scribbled it down and passed me the small strip of paper. It was for twenty thousand dollars. I stared open-mouthed at the money to my name.

“But…why?” I asked when I could breathe.

“I wanted to make magic more than fiction.”

“You did that, thank you.”

Her smile widened before she closed the door, and I wandered away in daze, amazed at the fantasy I was now living in.