Arthur Ansome and the Arcadian Club 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 kitchen doorway. Further inside the large dining hall came the sloshing sounds of a mop being rinsed and then plopped onto the hardwood floor. Arthur didn't need to look any further to know that Mrs. Pedigree was preparing lunch for the members of the town's council and that Mr. Hogan, the old man mopping the floor, was in fact, spying. Mr. Hogan, custodian of the Arroyo Room, spoke very little and being the cranky old curmudgeon that he was, said nothing more than barely-heard grumblings. Consequently, Arthur had a deep suspicion of him. There was little else to say about Mr. Hogan except that he was thin, gray, and moved like he was at least a hundred years old. He did, however, conceal a secret identity. He, at one time, was famously known for his sideshow circus act as Mr. Matthius Ichabod Hogan and his Incredible Diamond. Sadly, however, this early persona was not known much around the Arroyo Room. Had Arthur been aware of this, he wouldn't have made up his mind that Mr. Hogan was a clever spy. And so, like any good agent, Arthur avoided him at all cost. Mrs. Pedigree, on the other hand, was very approachable. She was the director of the facility, mother of little Miss Eevie, and known by all as one of the best cooks in town. At the moment, she was preparing a lunch of cucumber sandwiches and tomato basil soup for the councilors' noontime break. Her last name, Pedegree, was worth noting, by the talkers of the town, that it originated with French genealogists who made use of a three-pronged symbol, a "pied de grue", meaning "foot of the crane". This bit of personal knowledge was how she started her passion for the study of ancestry and then proceeded to discover Miss Pratter's little known family history. One more flight of stairs and I'm free, Arthur silently pledged as he whisked down the remaining steps to the bottom landing. As he eyed the front door, and the final milestone to yet another successful exodus, he encountered the one thing that always froze him in his tracks... a penny. Arthur always stopped to pick up stray coins off the ground and there, at the foot of the stairs, was a shiny copper penny. He felt that wealth would come his way someday if he pretended that each penny was like finding a trillion dollars. Arthur slowed to reach and pick up the penny on his way out... and then there came a tiny voice. "Arthur, won't you join me for tea?" came the pleading voice of a little girl from behind him. Arthur snatched the penny and turned swiftly to see Eevie poking her head out of a little hatch door leading to the space beneath the stairs, a space that was commonly used to store freshly laundered banquet linens. Arthur was embarrassed that his near perfect escape from the building had been compromised. Worse yet, was the feeling that Eevie had planted the penny in a plot to trip him up. Miss Eevie Pedegree was eleven years old, cute, with long blond hair and hazel eyes, precocious, spry and particularly obnoxious at times. In addition, she was a bit of a self-taught expert on quack remedies which she used to befuddle others. Her favorite retort was, "You need to find a phrenology parlor so you can have your head examined." Clever, very clever... he thought. "Eevie, not tea again? You know I don't like tea. Plus, can't you see I'm in a hurry to watch the shop?" Arthur snapped, then turned, and rushed for the exit. Arthur was swift and wasn't really listening, but he distinctly heard Eevie make a quick reference to a "phrenologist" on his way out. Arthur almost missed the tall gentleman on the sidewalk just outside the Arroyo Room, but instead, succeeded in slamming right into him. A black flowing cape draping off the gentleman's shoulders engulfed Arthur and left him blind and confused. He tussled in the darkness of the fabric until he felt a steady hand on his shoulders firmly guide him out of the entanglement. Up he looked at the amused face of a kind looking middle-aged man with dark hair and a top hat that matched the blackness of his cape, an appearance that seemed more common in ages past. "Whoa there, everything all right?" asked the man with a surprised tone. Arthur spent the next five seconds apologizing, "Sorry... sorry, sir. So very sorry." And then without further ado, continued his frantic dash. The Monk & Quill was right next to the ballroom entrance and not a single bell on the shop door was left noiseless as Arthur dashed inside. Mr. Leroy Malf, aging bookseller and guardian uncle to young Arthur Ansome, was modest, well-spoken and erudite, and in all his years of collecting rare books, had become a leading expert on esoteric manuscripts. Prior to Arthur's frantic entrance, he had been pacing back and forth, but after having noticed the pandemonium outside, Mr. Malf was not more than two steps away from the door, with coat, cap, and attache' all in place for his journey across town. "Once again cutting it very close... I will need to rush a bit, I hope you know." said Arthur's uncle as he sprinted out the door. "Sorry, Uncl..", was all Arthur had time to say before the door closed with another jangle of bells. Mr. Malf managed to successfully navigate around the gentleman still standing where Arthur had made his abrupt acquaintance moments before, and with a tip of the hat, said, "I wish his accuracy with time was better than his skill at running into people. My apologies." "No harm done," replied the gentleman who watched Mr. Malf strut along on his way to his very important appointment. Arthur took a deep breath and counted this as yet another occasion when he regretted staying up so late reading the night before. He looked at the old clock on the wall for a little relief, just to know how close to being on time he really was, but it was no help. Something was wrong with the minute hand as it rattled in place, moving forward then stepping back every other second. The clicking sound of the gears was a sure indication that the clock was not in a healthy state, and when the clicking turned into the sounds of broken springs the clock stopped altogether, its hands stuck on eleven minutes after eleven. Arthur sat down behind the shop desk and stared at the clock while wishing that he was invisible. There was no time to settle into the padded swivel chair when the jingle of bells sounded again. He turned to look towards the shop entrance and what he saw made his stomach sink a bit. The gentleman with the black cape stepped inside and closed the door. Arthur had just enough time to suspect that the man may have been trying to exact another apology when he spoke, "I have been looking for this bookshop for the past hour and I believe that I have finally found it." He continued after a breath, "It seems, however, that I have unfortunate timing and missed my opportunity to converse with the proprietor." "Aahh well, yes. That would be my uncle... I mean Mr. Malf. He had a business engagement and won't be returning until later this afternoon," replied Arthur. "That is disappointing... I thought he might like to purchase a book that I have in my possession," the man said with a look of resignation. Arthur stared at the man's expression as it turned into a look of disappointment, but he knew that there was only enough money in the shop to provide change for books sold to customers. His uncle had always been present in situations that involved purchases, and so Arthur asked, "Can you come back later? I'm sure he would like to take a look..." "I'm afraid I must catch a train within the hour and hoped the book would further subsidize my passage," replied the man. Arthur was quiet and watched as the man gave him one last look of lost hope before turning toward the door. He had few occasions to evaluate books due to most purveyors opting to return and discuss the transaction with his uncle, but he suddenly had the sense that an opportunity was about to walk out the door. Arthur asked, "Can I see it?" The man stopped in his tracks just before reaching the door and turned. "I hoped you might ask such a question," he replied. He reached under his cape and brought forth a package enveloped in cloth and began unwrapping it. As he removed the cloth, a glittery binding revealed itself. The small book was leather bound, no larger than the palm of a hand. Small gemstones decorated its cover with a large shiny black gemstone set squarely in the middle, and as the man gingerly placed the book on the desk before Arthur, a title came into view: ORBIS PICTUS (The Book of Secrets) - Millenium Fulcrum Edition. Arthur was sure nothing like this was in his uncle's collection. Arthur reached forward to have a feel of the binding when the man interjected, "If you please, young sir... this must be opened by nobody except its owner. Allow me." With a gentle deftness, as if lifting a tiny teacup, he opened the book to a random page and let it lay open upon the desk. The page presented a hand-painted illustration of a richly adorned man reaching out his hands with an offering to a smaller and simply dressed man. The rest of the page held the following caption: Emthulsela's Theorem The grace of those encountered is always proportional to one's own sense of nobility. The text was hand scribed with small hints of gold filigree. The parchment appeared weathered and somewhat softened through use, as if previously read a thousand times. The text and illustration were clear and of a quality that Arthur recognized from other books of quality. Arthur was transfixed, and knew that he wanted it. "How much do you want for it?" asked Arthur. "That is not an easy question to answer. You see it is not the quantity but the quality of your finances which dictates its price," he replied. Arthur was confused by this answer and then inquired, "How do we determine a price then?" There was a pause as the man scrutinized Arthur. "Why don't we set the price, at this moment in time, at six-hundred forty-seven," he answered but with some resignation as if to observe Arthur's response. Arthur was taken a little aback by the price. He knew that his uncle never kept that kind of money in the Monk & Quill. Anything more than a few dozen bills and coins were kept in a locked safe that only his uncle could access. Arthur knew he wanted the book but did not know what to do. He thought hard waiting for some inspiration. "Are you sure you can't hold off your departure until tomorrow?" Arthur asked. "No, I'm sorry. I must confess that my #life depends on catching that train. I cannot elaborate, but if there is anything that you can counter-offer..." the man replied with some understanding of Arthur's desire for the book and his inability to afford it. Arthur, however, could afford it. He thought good and hard about the money hidden upstairs. It was left to him by his departed parents before his uncle had become his guardian. He knew his uncle would want this book and with this confidence he asked, "Can you wait five minutes while I get the money?" "I believe so, however, my time is running short and I cannot linger too much longer. Can you be quick about it?" he asked. "Yes, please wait while I run upstairs and... be right back," Arthur replied with sudden exuberance as he ran around the desk and out the door, leaving the shop unattended without a thought or concern about it. Back into the main building, he dashed three steps at a time, quickly, past the second floor landing, until he reached the third floor. He was winded and knew he had just sounded like a stampeding elephant. He rounded a quick corner and found the steps leading up to the attic loft. After five more seconds, he was reaching into a book shelf where he removed a large dictionary, behind which was hidden a small wooden box. Arthur grabbed it, ran to the other side of the room, reached into a jar, retrieved a small key, sunk it into the box, and opened the lid. A large roll of bills fell into his right hand. He counted out six hundred and forty seven and quickly proceeded out of the loft and down the small stairwell back to the third floor landing. He considered himself lucky, thus far, to not have encountered anyone who might force him to take a more civilized pace, and then he rounded a corner and ran face-first into the torso of a large suited man. Arthur looked up and saw Mayor Bellamy looking straight back at him. Anybody else and Arthur would have bounced off with a quick apology and continued on his way. But this was the mayor, and the person in charge of paying the rent on the ballroom for the council's use. It was such a windfall for his uncle that he was able to pursue new opportunities outside of normal business. If things went wrong here, his uncle would pay the price. "Sir... I mean Mr. Bellamy. How are you?" Arthur squeaked in an attempt at feigning maturity. "Well, Arthur is it?" he inquired. "Yes sir," Arthur answered while suddenly noticing the fistful of bills in his hand, which the Mayor also noticed. "I am just fine," said the mayor and continued, "And I can see that you are Mr. Moneybags today. Are you in a rush to make a contribution to our new town hall?" Arthur knew that it would look bad for him to try and backpedal out of this but his desire for the book outweighed all else. In an instant, he stuffed the bills in his pocket and reached for the penny he had found on the ground earlier. "You can have this penny," he exclaimed while realizing how silly it sounded. The Mayor raised an eyebrow for a moment and then said, "Why, how could I refuse such a donation... but I think that you should keep your penny. You know that a penny is like a seed... If you plant it well, it will grow and return tenfold." With a little wink of his eye, he concluded, "So, good day to you... oh, a three-stepping stair stomper has been heard somewhere in the building, so please do watch out." Arthur was a little unsure whether or not to take the mayor seriously. Could the mayor have known that he was the stair stomper? And how did the Mayor know that he held similar opinions about pennies? Arthur watched Mr. Bellamy make the turn from the stairwell into the ballroom's foyer when Arthur's tongue came untied. "Wait!" he said. Mr. Bellamy turned back with a blank look. "Sir, here's ten," Arthur said while pulling a bill from his pocket and planting it in the surprised mayor's hand, and then turned down the stairs. "Why thank you young man," exclaimed Mr. Bellamy. "You're welcome sir. Sorry I'm in such a rush. Good day to you too," Arthur said back in reply while mustering all the restraint he could to keep from taking more than one step at a time. "Your donation will be well planted," the Mayor responded as Arthur rounded a corner, "Well planted indeed." Arthur knew that he had less now than the asking price for the book, and that more than five minutes had passed. Both thoughts left him with dread as he made his way back to the Monk & Quill. He hoped that he was not too late. Seven and a half seconds later, he was flying through the shop door and to his sheer horror, the Monk & Quill was empty. If there were secret corners or alcoves in the less-than-spacious bookshop, he would have searched them, but it was clear that the gentleman had left. Arthur gave himself a couple seconds for the disappointment to set in when he was hit with the sudden thought: He must still be nearby. Arthur decided to try and find the gentleman with the black cape and hat, a person who could not be too hard to find. He locked the shop as fast as he could, knowing all too well that his uncle would consider closing at this time of day to be a major betrayal of customer trust. Something stronger, however, forced him past his fear of reprimand and off he ran along the sidewalk to the end of the block. Turning the corner, he focused his eyes along the distance of the block and there at the far corner was a man in a dark cape conversing with another man who looked oddly like Mr. Hogan, the custodian. "Hey there... I have your money!" yelled Arthur as he began to retrieve the bills and run at the same time. Arthur's sense of relief was overwhelming as he increased his stride. And then something happened. Arthur's feet were suddenly impeded and they were no longer underneath him. Something came out from nowhere and tripped him and from that point forward, he was gliding head first, bills flying, arms outstretched into a perfect stolen base maneuver. Anyone would have been proud to perform such a flying leap in order to steal a base on the gentle dirt of a baseball field, but as Arthur landed on the hard sidewalk, it felt nothing of the sort. As he recovered, Arthur ignored the burning pain of his scraped hands in order to search through the fluttering bills only to observe, with utter dismay, that the gentleman was no longer in sight. He did notice, however, that the other man was, in fact, Mr. Hogan, and that he was approaching, or rather lurching, from the opposite corner. Arthur also became keenly aware that there was laughter drawing near him from behind. A figure walked around, knelt down, looked him in the eye and said, "Good thing I tripped you... or you might have given them fellers my money." It was Dumpty Seymour and Arthur feared and hated him. Dumpty had an inferior complex that evolved out of the abuse of having such a name and a superior complex from having grown to be so much larger than others his age. The first time Arthur had protested his treatment by Dumpty and his gang, the result had been an escalation of oppression completely out of proportion to the amount of protest. Lenience through submission was Arthur's single hope at the moment. Dumpty glanced over his shoulder to notice Mr. Hogan's progress and turned back and began picking up the bills on the ground. All the while, he counted, "Four, five, six hundred... o.k. that's all of it. Looks like six hundred and thirty seven here." One quick glance again and then Dumpty turned back to Arthur, who was still numb with shock. "Looks like that old man is on his way to rescue you, so here's how this is going to play out you little twerp. I am going to loan you this money, but I want it back. And the next time I see you, if you don't give it back, I'm going to get you! Got it?" Dumpty then reached for Arthur and hoisted him up onto his feet, dusted him off and in a voice loud enough for everyone around to hear,...