Aziraphale's Books

Every year around this time, Azi would post about people who would come into the shop and start repeating a name. He claimed he didn't know why, but I'm certain he did: Have you heard that the souls of dead men travel on the Trunk?

Since Azi isn't here, I'll do it. I know he would want that.

I let myself into the shop. Nothing seems out of place. I don't want to worry. Azi has never kept regular hours and sometimes he'd put a sign on the door and disappear for a week or so. But there's no sign, and I haven't seen him since November.

I haven't seen McKean either. McKean's blog disappeared last week. I texted him but he hasn't replied.

Halloween is upon us. It is still dark outside, but strange things have already begun. We're not yet open and yet I heard a voice in the back of the shop shout, "Fantastic!" A man in a black leather jacket was kneeling in front of a small display on an old crate. "Are you my mummy?"

Then he turned to me and said, "Sorry, wrong place. Or wrong time. I'm never quite sure."

A moment later he was gone, and I will not bother to describe the nature of his exit, as you would not believe me anyway.

Banned Books Week is officially over, but it scarcely matters. There will always be angry voices determined to silence all the other voices.

In the current political climate, when masked men are abducting peaceful men and women with impunity, a fight over censorship seems almost trivial.

"I know you're tired," she said. "But you're going to be haunted whether you like it or not. It happens every October."

She is right. I'm tired.

"Tear gas in Logan Square yesterday" she continued. "Not to mention what's happening in Broadview." She gestured at the shelves to her right. "I was looking for a copy of It Can't Happen Here yesterday. You don't have one."

"It's selling quite well for a book that is 90 years old."

"Ghosts get a bad rap, don't you think? The living do far more damage."

"Just like witches and demons. They're always being blamed for things that are the work of ordinary men and women."

Fran nodded. "Banned books week started today." She stood up slowly. "Maybe I'll stop by tomorrow. Help you decorate for Halloween." She walked out without another word.

I think you will not believe what I am about to say, but I assure you it is true. Last night I received this book in the mail. It was accompanied by a note which read: "Sir: I believe this may belong to you. It served me well on a very, very long day. I'm happy to be able to return it to its owner. Thank you." Oddly enough, I believe that the book is on that I lost it many years ago, in a town called Punxsutawney. I do not know how it found its way back to me.

Stranger still is that the exact same thing happened the morning before. And the morning before that. And the morning before that, and every single morning that I can recall. I do not understand it, but I assure you that this is the truth.

Late last night, over several glasses of wine, I browsed through the book, trying to understand why it kept reappearing. At some point I drifted off to sleep.

I was awakened by the presence of a troll-like little man, standing before me. He introduced himself. I cannot quite recall his name, but it was odd. Emon Brusque? No, that's not right. Moron Lusk? No. Elon Tusk? Something like that. He pointed to the book. "Poetry's worthless. You should burn this book." He waved his arm around the shop. "You should burn everything here. All books are worthless." He snapped his fingers and the book was suddenly engulfed in flames. Then he shouted "Sieg Heil!" and disappeared in a cloud of fire and brimstone. Immediately I poured the remaining wine on the book, dousing the flames, but the damage was done. The booked was charred and ruined.

The next morning, however, I was shocked to find the book was there again: The same book, the same note, as if the day had simply started over again.

What does all this mean? I do not know. Perhaps there is some lesson in all this. We are sometimes slow to learn our lessons, aren't we? We keep have to repeat them again and again, doing it over until we finally get it right. Whatever the lesson is, books are surely a part of it.

Working in the shop yesterday morning, I heard a commotion at the front door. Two young men -- one heavy-set, the other much smaller -- barged through the front door. They wore knit caps and large coats and they carried a brightly-painted wooden crate, a book, and a large jar. They stopped when they saw me and the larger man shoved the smaller one forward. "Do it, eh!"

The smaller man replied, "No way, eh? You do it."

"I did it at the beer store. It's your turn."

The smaller man grabbed a stack of books, apparently at random, and put them in the crate. He put the crate on the counter. "We want these, OK?"

They stood there awkwardly, staring at me. I took that as my cue to ring up the books. I took the first one and checked the price and began to enter the amount on the register.

"Uh, I believe there'll be no charge for these books," the larger man said.

"Excuse me?"

He grabbed the book they had brought with them. "OK, we bought this book from YOUR bookstore, and we were at our book club, and a friend of ours -- a cop! -- found a mouse in this book. And he said when that happens, you get free books."

"It's in the Canadian criminal code," the smaller man added. "There's precedent in legal cases."

I stared at them in confusion. "It's The Tale of Despereaux. It's about a mouse. So yes, there is a mouse in the book. You do not get free books because a book has a mouse in it. And we are not in Canada, so whatever is in the Canadian criminal code is not applicable."

At the back of the shop, Crowley overheard the conversation and began moving toward the men.

"I told you this wouldn't work!" the smaller man whispered.

"Release the moths!" the other man shouted.

"We let 'em out at the movie theater."

"You were supposed to get more moths, you knob! Why'd you bring the jar if you didn't get more moths?"

At this point, Crowley stepped up to the counter. "I know you two," he said. "You're the McKenzie brothers. You want free books? Go to the publisher!"

"You sure you don't want to think about it?" asked the larger man.

Crowley grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him to within an inch of his face. "I'm sure," Crowley answered.

Crowley can be a rather intimidating presence. The brothers wisely exited the shop immediately, leaving behind the crate, the jar, and The Tale of Despereaux.