That book was gone the next day.
And a day later, a tiny, glinting gold coin was left behind, with another letter.
To the librarian,
I do not know what I did to deserve the favor of the Gods, but I am grateful, so grateful, for your kindness to me. I believed our cause to be lost; I believed that I would never have the opportunity to avenge what was done to my family; now, suddenly, I have been gifted with a way forward. Blessings on you.
If you can bring me more such books, I will leave you every scrap of gold I can find.
The gold coin was a tiny disk, the size of a dime but thinner. There was an image of a bird with spread wings stamped into one side; the other showed either a candelabra or a rib cage, Meigan wasn’t sure. Meigan’s kitchen scale thought the coin weighed four grams, which—if it was actually gold—was over $100 worth of gold. Of course, most gold-colored metal items weren’t actually gold, but… it was noticeably heavy for its tiny size, and when she tried a magnet, it was most definitely not magnetic. In theory she could have bitten it, but she didn’t want to mess up the pictures stamped in.
For the first time, she felt a pang of uncertainty.
What is really going on here? Who am I giving books to?
An artist, she told herself firmly. A storyteller. A neighbor. This is probably bronze or brass or some other yellow metal, and they hammer it themselves as a hobby just like they carve whistles and all the rest.
She tucked in a coloring book about Roman aqueducts and left a note: Who are you? She also left behind a note pad, since the thought of someone cutting blank pages out of books to write on made her feel odd. A few minutes later she went back out and added a pen.
I am a servant to the rightful Queen and heir, displaced by her uncle; at his orders, she took vows to join an order of lay sisters, where she’s lived ever since. But all my prayers were answered the day I found your Library, and I will forever be YOUR servant, Librarian of the Books of the Tree.
We have begun constructing a ballista, in secret. Please send me more books.
Meigan bought a copy of The Knowledge: How to Rebuild Civilization to put in the box. Then a book on military history; then Weapons by the Diagram Group; then an Army tactical manual. Each book was rewarded with coins, all of them stamped with candelabra—or skeleton—and bird, all of them gold (or gold colored, at least).
She was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on anything other than her library—on new books to leave, on who, exactly, might be coming, on whether she really still believed that this was an artist and neighbor playing an interesting game with her. Twice, she tried to watch the box from her living room overnight, but both times she fell asleep.
Finally one day she found a note:
We are ready. Many thanks for all your help. Pray for our victory.
And the notes stopped. Someone did take her copy of Greek Fire, Poison Arrows, and Scorpion Bombs but did not leave a coin or a letter.
After a few days of nothing, she gathered up the coins and took them to a jeweler, who told her that yes, they were real gold, and he could give her $1,245 for the lot if she wanted to sell them.
No one spends over a thousand dollars on a joke.
She didn’t want to sell them. If she’d been about to lose her house she’d definitely have done it, but the thought of parting with this tangible evidence of… of whatever had happened… no. She told the jeweler she’d think about it and took them home again.
Back at her house, she went looking for the leaf she’d left on top of her refrigerator, but it had dried up and crumbled away. She looked through the gifts again, the ones that had been left before the coins started. She could take them to someone, maybe, see what they thought, if they wouldn’t think she was crazy. If they didn’t think this stuff was stolen. It occurred to her that it might in fact be stolen, that maybe someone was playing a game with her and that person blithely gave away $1,200 worth of gold because it didn’t actually belong to them. But she looked through pictures of ancient coins and found nothing that looked like what she had. The hand-forged safety pin was a fibula, though, and she found some pictures that were similar. Some were from ancient Greece and ancient Rome; some were from modern artists selling their wares on Etsy.
One warm night (spring had arrived, finally) she set up a chair in her yard, and tried again to sit watch. She dozed, despite herself, and startled awake at some odd hour of the very late night, and looked: the box was gone. Missing. She stared at its spot, and then saw it. It was back—or it had never actually gone—she was left frustratingly uncertain.
It felt like she’d read a book, only to find the last page missing.
Then one Monday morning, she opened the Little Free Library and found another note, along with a box that looked like it had been hand-carved from a block of wood.
All is lost, the note said. Our superior weaponry could not match their advantage of numbers. Our last hope is to send my lady’s child forth into your keeping before they are upon us. As you keep books, so may you keep her child.
Child? Meigan thought with alarm. She opened the box.
Nestled inside the wood was a straw lining—and an egg.
It was large—not enormous like an ostrich egg but it filled the palm of her hand. It was silvery green in color, with markings that looked almost like scales.
What do you do with eggs?
Well, you keep them warm…
She took it inside.
Note: Little Free Libraries are real. http://littlefreelibrary.org/ I know several people who have them, though alas, none of theirs are portals to another world.
About the Author
NAOMI KRITZER has been making friends online since her teens, when she had to use a modem to dial up at 2400 baud. She is a writer and blogger who has published a number of short stories and novels for adults, including the Eliana’s Song duology and the Dead Rivers Trilogy. Her 2015 short story “Cat Pictures Please” won the Hugo Award and Locus Award and was a finalist for the Nebula. Naomi lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, with her family and four cats. The number of cats is subject to change without notice. You can sign up for email updates here.
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