theninjalibrarians_chapter1excerpt

8/12/2019 TheNinjaLibrarians_Chapter1excerpt

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CHAPTER 1

Books and Swords

welve--year--old Dorothea Barnes was thoroughly un--chosen, not particularly deserving

bore no marks of destiny, lacked any sort of criminal genius, and could claim no

supernatural relations. Furthermore, shed never been orphaned, kidnapped, left for

dead in the wilderness, or bitten by anything more bloodthirsty than her little sister.

Dont even begin to entertain consoling thoughts of long flaxen curls or shiny tressesblack as ravens wings. Dorries plain brown hair could only be considered marvelous in its

ability to twist itself into hopeless tangles. She was neither particularly tall or small, thick or

thin, pale or dark. She had parents who loved her, friends enough, and never wanted for a

meal. So why, you may wonder, tell a story about a girl like this at all?

Because Dorrie counted a sword among her most precious belongings. Yes, it was only

a fake one that couldnt be relied upon to cut all the way through a stick of butter, but

Dorrie truly and deeply desired to use it. Not just to fend off another staged pirate attack at

Mr. Louis P. Kornbergers Passaic Academy of Swordplay and Stage Combat (which met

Tuesdays behind the library after Mr. Kornberger finished work there) but, when the right

circumstances arose, to vanquish some measure of evil from the world.

Dorrie regarded every opportunity to prepare for that moment as a crucial one, and the

Passaic Public Librarys annual Pen and Sword Festivalalways bursting with costumed

scribblers and swashbucklersafforded, in her strongly-held opinion, one of the best. On its

appointed day, she pounded down the wide battered staircase of her home long before the

rising sun finished gilding the rusty dryer that sat, for lost reasons, on top of it. She did so

in the one tall purple boot she could find, dragging her duffel bag behind her.

At the bottom, in the vast chamber that had once served as a ballroom, Dorrie caught

a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung over a bureau by the back door, and hiked

up her wide leather belt. She had buckled it over a hideous, electric-blue-and-black-striped

suit jacket with ripped-out sleeves that Dorries father swore he had worn proudly out in

public in a bygone era. Underneath it, a shirt with great puffy sleeves and dangling cuffs

screamed pirate loudly and well. After taking a moment to tug on the hem of the moth -

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eaten velvet skirt that was meant to hang to her knees but had got caught in the

waistband of her underwear, she glowered into the mirror, her sword aloft. Despite the

missing boot, the overall effect pleased her.

Yo ho, Calico Jack, called her father. Put this back in Great--Aunt Alices sitting room

will you? Dorrie looked away from the mirror to see her father, holding a tiny carved owl.

He wore a ruffled, candy-striped apron that read, You Breaka My Eggs, I Breaka Your Fast.With his free hand he was stirring a pot of glopping oatmeal in the part of the old ballroom

the Barnes called The Kitchen. Other parts of the once grand chamber served as The

Living Room, The Office, The Rehearsal Hall for Dorries fourteen-year-old drum-pounding

brother, Marcus, and The Playroom for Miranda, Dorries four-year-old sister.

Dorrie made her way to her father across one of the dozen rugs bought cheap from thrift

stores currently living out their end days beneath the daily burden of ill-conceived art

projects, the occasional mislaid plate of scrambled eggs, and books. Heaps and hills and

hoards of books. Books left open on the back of the sway-backed sofa and under the piano,

on the top of the toaster and hanging from the towel rack.

Miranda borrowed it, he said, dropping the carved owl into Dorries outstretched hand.

Dorrie gave her father a look. Her sister had a deeply ingrained habit of borrowing

things. Dorrie set off for Great--Aunt Alices sitting room, which lay on the other side of the

deteriorating mansion.

Great--Aunt Alice had invited Dorries family to live with her two years ago when her

sprawling home had become too much to care for by herself.

Besides the ballroom and a few bedrooms, the rest of the mansion was her territory.

Just as shabby, she kept it spare and clean and orderly. Great--Aunt Alice claimed the

Barnes side of the house gave her fits of dizziness.

After Dorrie set the owl back on its shelf in Great--Aunt Alices empty sitting room, the

thick hush tempted her to tuck her sword beneath an arm and open a little stone box that

stood beside the owl. Inside lay an old pocket watch and a silver bracelet set with a

cloudy black stone.

The doorbell rang, and Great--Aunt Alices voice in the marble--floored hallway madeDorries hand jerk so that the boxs lid fell closed with a small clack.

Hurriedly, Dorrie pushed the box back onto the shelf. Then, in a silly horror at the

thought of Great--Aunt Alice-who often seemed as remote and unfathomable as a distant

planet-catching her snooping, she wrenched open the lid of a cavernous wicker trunk that

stood against the wall and scrambled inside, sword and all. She pulled the heavy lid down

on top of her. It bounced on her fingers, trapping them, just as Great--Aunt Alice hobbled


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into the room. Dorrie sucked in her breath, the pain making her eyes water. She heard the

sitting--room door close.

Well, did he see you go in? asked Great--Aunt Alice.

Oh, he doesnt have the imagination to suspect, said a young woman breathlessly.

Dorrie pressed her eyes to the gap made by her swiftly swelling fingers. Amanda,

Dorries favorite librarian at the Passaic Public Library after Mr. Kornberger, stood now,inexplicably, just inside Great--Aunt Alices sitting--room door. Everything about Amanda

Ness was long. Her skirts, her hundred braids which hung down below her shoulders, and

her nose-which had been given the usual infant inch and had taken a mile. If a long

temper was the opposite of a short one, well, she had that too.

You should be more careful, said Great--Aunt Alice, stopping at her writing desk. She

smoothed a few white hairs back toward the tight bun at the back of her head. Has

anything changed?

Not yet, said Amanda, sitting down on the edge of a little pale--blue sofa.

No. Of course not, said Great--Aunt Alice, easing herself down into a straight--backed

chair. Its patently absurd that were even discussing the possibility.

Amanda looked vaguely hurt.

I dont know what Ive been thinking, said Great--Aunt Alice. Sneaking around in there

like a thief these past weeks.

Amanda clasped her hands together. You were thinking that the stories might be true!

Dorrie listened so hard that she could almost feel her ears trying to creep away from her

head.

Great--Aunt Alice picked lint from a sweater hung on the back of the chair. Well, Im a

foolish old woman. She caught Amanda staring at her. Oh now, dont look so

disappointed.

Give it more time! pleaded Amanda. He said he wasnt sure how long it might take.

Great--Aunt Alice absently toyed with a little jar of pens on her desk. Im ashamed that

believed even for a moment in the possibility.

In her wonder at the thought that Great--Aunt Alice could believe in anything fantasticalfor even the briefest of moments, Dorrie barely felt the wicker strands of the trunk

embedding themselves in her knees. After all, Great--Aunt Alice had frowned disapprovingly

when Miranda asked her to clap her hands so that Tinkerbell wouldnt die.

Amanda leaned toward Great--Aunt Alice. But its obvious that something special is

supposed to happen there. Dorrie held her breath so as not to miss a single word. The

conversation positively bulged with mysterious possibilities.


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Its obvious my father wantedsomething special to happen, Great--Aunt Alice corrected

My believing that it will happen is as ridiculous as Dorothea believing that shes going to

corner modern evil with a sword.

At the mention of her name, Dorrie nearly lost her grip on the sword in question and

had to scrabble to keep it from falling noisily to the floor of the trunk. There was a

moment of silence during which Dorrie felt certain that Amanda and Great--Aunt Alicecould hear the small cave-in taking place in the general vicinity of her heart, but her

great-aunt only sniffed and began to talk about Mr. Scuggans, the new director of the

Passaic Public Library, calling him insufferable.

Dorrie began to breath again in shallow little huffs. Ridiculous! She turned the stinging

word over in her mind. Dorrie had never stopped to think about whether her desire to

wield a sword against the villains of the world was sensible or ridiculous. It just was. She

squeezed the hilt of her sword, drawing strength from it until the crumbling hollow feeling

in her chest faded a little.

The conversation outside the basket had turned to the difficulty of cleaning the librarys

gutters, and stuck there for what seemed like an excruciating eternity until, at last, Great--

Aunt Alice showed Amanda out. Dorrie, her heart pounding, slipped from her wicker prison,

and back through the double doors that led into her familys side of the house.

theninjalibrarians_chapter1excerpt

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