Chapter 1

September 9 has never been a day of much importance.  But it was the day on which Martin Chatsworth first found the Library.  He was walking along the lake towards the boathouse, eager to hide away from the popular kids.  Class had only been in for three weeks, and already they were bullying him.  They would antagonize him to tears.  It was in this state, with balled fists and red face, that he entered the Library, quite by mistake. 

If you have ever walked into a building you thought to be a boathouse and found it to be a library, you will know that it comes as quite a shock.  But that is the exact situation in which Martin found himself.  Completely shocked, with balled fists and red face.

Every library has a unique smell.  You can typically judge the quality of the library by this smell.  If a library smells of new carpet and cleaning products, you can guess that this is a library meant for very important people doing very important things.  You should not expect to find many secrets in such a library.  But this library did not smell like that.  Nor did it smell like dirty diapers and air freshener, which is a combination that inevitably points to a library of picture books. 

This library smelled like leather and dust.  Dusty libraries are secret libraries.  All good adventures begin in libraries like this one.  As Martin walked in, fists unclenching, he was immediately awestruck by the magnitude of the place.  On the outside, the boathouse had looked like a one story stone building, probably used for the housing of boats.  Martin had, somewhat foolishly, expected the inside to match the outside.

Instead, the library was huge.  Light streamed in from the massive stained glass windows and illuminated the rows of bookcases.  The cases were all more than twice as tall as Martin and lined with countless ladders of various sizes. They were made out of deep mahogany and arranged in no particular order.  In fact, instead of the neat, rank-and-file columns of the other library, these cases seemed to form a labyrinthine maze in which a boy could wander for days and never make it to the back.

And oh, the books.  Big books, little books, ancient books, round books, books wrapped in leather, books wrapped in cloth, books inside of books.  Some books looked like they had no more than 10 pages.  Others looked so thick that Martin doubted whether they could be opened at all.  He was about to walk over and find out when something caught him completely off guard: a voice.

“Hello, there,” the voice said in a horse whisper that sounded strained and cracked with age.  “I never thought I’d see the day when a Chatsworth boy came wandering into my Library.  I’m the Librarian, and you must be Robert.”

Martin gasped and spun around, staring at the tiny old man.  “My name is Martin,” he corrected.

“Well of course it is; how silly of me.”  Under normal circumstances, this response would have puzzled Martin, but he was too busy studying the curious man to hear the comment. 

The Librarian was old.  And not old like your grandfather, old like your grandfather’s grandfather.  His little brown eyes were kindly and sparkling with life. They were mostly hidden by bushy eyebrows that looked like two fuzzy caterpillars had crawled onto his face and, finding it quite to their liking, had refused to leave.  His cheeks sagged down to his chin, propped up only by a thin smile that never left the man’s ancient, leathery face.  His ears were large, and poked out at all the wrong angles, pushing their way out of the wild patches of hair that clung to the Librarian’s ever-balding head for dear life. 

He was in a faded tweed suit with patches over the elbows, which seemed more out of necessity than any fashion sense.  His shirt, tie, and vest matched neither the suit nor each other, but seemed to fit perfectly with the man.  He smelled faintly of sweet tobacco, the sort of scent that usually comes from smoking a pipe.

The old man’s voice shattered the silence that had drifted into the library.

“Is there something I can help you with, my dear boy?”

Martin shook his head, wishing for all the world that he could find the courage to say yes and disappear forever into this library.  But courage, as it happened, was not Martin’s strong suit.  Again he shook his head, and backed slowly out to the door of the library. 

“Please don’t go, Robert.  You’ve only just arrived.”

“My name is Martin,” he corrected, before backing out of the library.  As sunlight hit his back, he spun around and ran smack into the plump frame of Headmaster Timothy Sutton. 

“Martin, what are you doing in the boat house? You know it is off-limits to students that aren’t in Mr. Webber’s boatbuilding class.”

“I know, sir,” Martin stumbled in reply.  “I was just…did you know that it’s actually a library?”

The substantial chins of Headmaster Sutton wobbled violently as he burst out into laughter. 

“You did always have quite the imagination, young sir.  But it does not address my original question.”

Martin looked at the Headmaster, confused.  “Sir, I’m telling the truth.  There is a library.  And an old man named…” Martin trailed off.  He hadn’t caught the man’s name. 

Headmaster Sutton’s eyes grew stern and his lips curved down his pear shaped face.  “Don’t you think, Master Chatsworth, that I would know if there was a library in the boathouse of my own school?” 

Martin began to get annoyed now.  “Well, sir, I would assume so, but clearly you are not as well informed as you thought.”

All signs of laughter left the fat man’s face.  He looked down, eyes reflecting the storm clouds gathering in the distance.

“Now you listen here, boy.  This is my school, and I know every inch of it.  If you are so determined that there is a library in the boat house, then why don’t you show me?  And if you’re wrong, Martin, and you have been lying to my face, you know the punishment.”

Martin did, indeed, know the punishment.  Out of School Suspension.  But Martin knew what he had seen.  So he confidently pushed open the wooden door.  “See for yourself.”

The headmaster brushed by Martin, shoving him out of the way with his meaty hand, and nearly sending him toppling over.  Headmaster Sutton looked inside the boat house for what seemed like forever.  Then he turned around, face the ruddy color of brick.

“Martin.  Suspension.  Now.”

Martin’s jaw dropped in protest.  “But why, sir?  I told the truth!  There’s a library right there in front of you.  Can you not see….”

At that moment, Mr. Sutton stepped out of the way, giving Martin a clear view into the boat house.  Much to Martin’s absolute horror, it was nothing but a dilapidated boat house, with one unfinished wooden canoe sitting on a stand and lines of moss following watery trails up the cracked walls.  There was not a single book in sight.