On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness by Andrew Peterson Page A

busy dusting off piles of books and rambling. “Most people were working so hard at rebuilding and adjusting to life with evil snake men breathing down their necks that they didn’t have time for books,” he muttered. “They were given to me or sold for pennies. As the infamous Bweesley the Leaf Thief said in his memoir, ‘Cheap is almost free.’ Look around you, lads. This is the best of the old Skree. Or at least, it’s what’s left of it.”
    Janner and Tink stood in the silence of the study. Suddenly the piles of books and cluttered shelves were somehow more than that. What Oskar had preserved was the memory of a world that had passed away—as surely as Esben Igiby had passed away. Oskar too seemed lost in thoughts about the past. He tenderly cradled a stack of books in his hands. “On Dragon Day,” he said, “the people who visit me come to remember who they were. They always leave sad.”
    Janner pictured in his mind the faces of the people in town with their weak smiles and hollow laughter.
    â€œNow then,” Oskar said, interrupting Janner’s thoughts. “Here’s what I need from you two. I’ll sit here at the desk and keep record of the books and their categories—very taxing on the mind, I assure you—and you two unload the crates and stack them where old Oskar Noss Reteep tells you. Just holler out the title and author. Can you handle that?”
    Janner’s and Tink’s nods halted as Oskar swung open the large double-door to reveal a stack of eighteen wooden crates of various sizes sitting on the lawn, piled precariously high. On top of the highest crate perched Zouzab, who smiled at the shock on the boys’ faces.
    â€œWell! We have much to do, I’d say!” Oskar chuckled as he sat at his desk and lit his pipe. “What was it the great poet Shank Po wrote?”
    â€œHuh?” Tink asked.
    â€œAh yes,” Oskar said with a puff of smoke. “‘Get thee busy.’”

17
    The Journal of Bonifer Squoon
    J anner and Tink worked for hours while Zouzab skittered here and there, giving unwanted advice on how they should proceed and occasionally serenading them with sad, haunting songs on his odd little flute.
    Oskar N. Reteep sat at his desk with glee, his spectacles on the end of his nose, recording the titles and authors in a large leather-bound tome while he directed the boys where to stack each book according to its subject.
    â€œ
The Sound of Sidgebaw
by…Riva Twotoe,” Tink read.
    â€œAh, a fine work. Very rare. File under S ITTING U TENSILS , there in the corner, see?” Oskar pointed above Tink’s head.
    â€œ
I Came and I Wept Like the Sissy I Am
by Lothar Sweeb,” Janner read from another spine.
    â€œSweeb? Ah, yes, a mediocre talent, but very prolific. File under B ACON S ONGS , just behind the lampstand there.”
    â€œ
Bonked
by Phinksam Ponkbelly.”
    â€œG ARDENING . Excellent book.”
    Hours of this later, the boys were sweaty and exhausted. Tink’s stomach growled constantly. Twice, Oskar bade Zouzab to fetch water for them, which he did without complaint before scampering back up the pile of crates and leaping across to the roof of the building like a squirrel.
    Podo appeared from the front of the building, announcing his arrival with a bone-rattling belch. “Not bad manners, just good ale,” he said with a wink. “I see old Oskar’s puttin’ ye both to good use.”
    Janner and Tink were grateful for an excuse to rest a moment. “Yes sir,” Janner said. “We’re almost finished, then Mister Reteep’s going to let us bring a few books home.”
    â€œAye, that’s kind of him,” Podo said with a nod. “If you lads are fine and well, I’m off to the cottage to fetch the shovel. Need to turn it in to the blasted Fangs before sundown. Will you two be okay to walk home without