The Wandering Library of MirMarnia: A Series

Part Six: Notable Incidents and Near Disasters

(I painted this on Procreate using the Eaglehawk brush on my iPad, and it took ages for some reason - Chaiga T. Cheska)
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A chronicle of things that went spectacularly wrong, compiled by those who barely survived them

Compiled by Bramwell Corin, with additional commentary (and excessive exclamation marks) by Pip Thimble

Editor’s Preface (Bramwell Corin)

Mistress Spine has requested that I document what she delicately refers to as “learning experiences” and what I would more accurately describe as “catastrophes narrowly averted through sheer luck and the intervention of a building with better judgment than its staff.”

I have included Pip’s accounts of the same incidents for comparison. His perspective is... enthusiastic. I have left his exclamation marks intact, though I considered removing approximately eighty percent of them on grounds of excess.

What follows is a record of incidents that should serve as warnings to future librarians. They will not. But I have documented them anyway.

Incident One: The Colour-Coded Catastrophe

Date: 14th October

Location: Main Reading Room

Responsible Party: A visiting scholar from Lower Wrenford who shall remain nameless, though Mistress Spine knows perfectly well who he was and has banned him from the premises.

Bramwell’s Account:

A well-meaning but catastrophically misguided scholar arrived on Tuesday and, upon observing our shelving system, declared it “chaotic” and “lacking aesthetic cohesion.” Before anyone could stop him, he had begun reorganising an entire wall of books by colour.

The Library expressed its displeasure.

I first noticed something was amiss when the lavatory door opened onto what appeared to be a broom cupboard. Then onto the eastern reading room. Then onto the exterior, three stories up, at which point I decided to hold it until the situation resolved itself.

The scholar, oblivious to the Library’s mounting fury, continued his chromatic arrangements. Red books here. Blue books there. A particularly unfortunate yellow volume entitled “Why Tradition Matters” found itself shelved next to “Chaos Theory for Beginners” purely because they matched.

At approximately three o’clock, every book he had touched simultaneously hurled itself from the shelves.

I have never seen a grown man run so fast. He departed through the front door, which helpfully opened onto a patch of brambles half a mile from where we were actually stationed. We have not seen him since. The books reshelved themselves by nightfall, in their original locations, looking smug.

Pip’s Account:

OH MY WORD IT WAS TERRIFYING!!!

The man seemed so confident! He had charts! He said something about “visual harmony” and “organisational aesthetics” and I thought maybe he knew what he was doing because he used a lot of long words!!!

Then the BOOKS ATTACKED HIM.

Not all at once. That would have been too kind. No, they waited until he’d reorganised an entire section, let him stand back and admire his work, and THEN they flew at his head like very literary pigeons.

I tried to warn him but he said, “Young man, I have three degrees in Library Science,” and I wanted to say “But do you have a degree in NOT MAKING BUILDINGS ANGRY?” but I didn’t because I’m supposed to be professional.

The lavatory situation was dire. I made the mistake of trying to use it during the chaos. The door opened onto a cliff edge. I screamed. The door closed. The next time I opened it, it led to Dame Pellifrax’s cottage, where she was having tea. She looked at me. I looked at her. I closed the door very quietly.

When I finally found an actual lavatory (Wednesday, different floor, through a corridor that smelled of regret), there was a note from the Autocurator that said: “We trust you have learned your lesson.”

I haven’t done ANYTHING! Why am I being punished?!

Resolution: Books returned to original positions. Scholar banned. Lavatory locations returned to normal by Thursday. Pip emotionally scarred.

Incident Two: The Diplomatic Crisis with Section Seven

Date: 3rd November

Location: Natural Philosophy Section

Responsible Party: Pip Thimble (inadvertent)

Bramwell’s Account:

Pip, whilst attempting to be helpful, told a book entitled “The Definitive Truth About Everything” that it was “a bit full of itself.”

The book took offense.

So did the entire section.

For three days, every volume in Natural Philosophy refused to open for anyone. They simply sat there, spines facing outward, emanating wounded dignity. Visitors requesting books on biology, astronomy, or the nature of matter were met with what can only be described as a wall of literary disapproval.

Pip attempted to apologise. The books remained closed.

I attempted to apologise on Pip’s behalf. The books remained closed.

Mistress Spine attempted to negotiate. The books opened just enough to show one page, which contained only the words: “We await a proper apology from the offending party.”

Pip, growing desperate, composed a formal letter of apology and read it aloud to Section Seven. The letter was three pages long and included the phrase “I deeply regret my hastily spoken words and recognise that I am but a humble junior librarian who knows nothing about anything.”

The books considered this.

After approximately six hours, one volume opened. Then another. By evening, the entire section had forgiven him, though “The Definitive Truth About Everything” remains frosty in Pip’s presence and occasionally falls closed if he walks past too quickly.

Pip’s Account:

I DIDN’T MEAN IT!!!

The book IS a bit full of itself! It literally says it knows the definitive truth about EVERYTHING! That’s objectively arrogant! I was just making an observation!

But apparently books have FEELINGS and I hurt them and then they went on STRIKE and it was MY FAULT.

Bramwell said, “This is what happens when you editorialise,” which I think means “This is what happens when you have opinions” and honestly, I’m starting to think opinions are dangerous in libraries.

I wrote the apology letter. Bramwell edited it. He removed four exclamation marks and added phrases like “with utmost respect” and “in humble recognition of my insufficient understanding.” It was HUMILIATING.

But the books opened again so I suppose it worked.

“The Definitive Truth About Everything” still hates me though. Yesterday it snapped shut on my fingers. Bramwell said that’s probably fair.

Resolution: Section Seven appeased. Pip learned to keep editorial comments internal. Book grudge ongoing.

Incident Three: The Teacup Rebellion

Date: 18th November

Location: Staff Room

Responsible Party: The enchanted teacup (malicious), Pip (victim)

Bramwell’s Account:

The teacup that sings has been with us since the Library’s inception. It was poorly enchanted by someone attempting to keep tea warm, and instead developed the ability to sing whenever filled with liquid. We have learned to tolerate this.

What we did not know until recently is that the teacup holds grudges.

Pip, in a moment of quite understandable frustration, said, “I wish you’d shut up for five minutes.” The teacup, apparently, took this personally.

For the next week, every time Pip entered the staff room, the teacup would begin singing at maximum volume. The tune varied according to the liquid within. Water produced a mournful dirge. Tea resulted in what can only be described as operatic shrieking. Coffee triggered something that sounded like a battle hymn composed by someone who had never heard music but had heard descriptions of it from a confused witness.

Attempts to remove the teacup from the staff room failed. It reappeared on the counter within minutes, sometimes bringing friends. At one point, there were seven singing teacups, all performing different songs, none of them harmonising.

Lyria Stepwell eventually resolved the situation by choreographing an interpretive dance of apology on Pip’s behalf. The teacup accepted this. The extra teacups departed. Peace was restored.

Pip is no longer allowed to speak to the crockery.

Pip’s Account:

THE TEACUP IS EVIL.

It FOLLOWED me. Even when I tried to have tea in the reading room, it appeared. Just sitting there. Waiting to be filled. And the MOMENT I poured anything into it, it would SCREAM.

Not even proper songs! Just NOISE. Terrible, vengeful noise that made my teeth ache and the books vibrate on the shelves.

And then the other teacups arrived like reinforcements. They formed a CHORUS. Of RAGE. Directed at ME.

Lyria said she would help. I thought she meant she would talk to the teacup. She did not. She DANCED at it. For twenty minutes. While I stood there dying of embarrassment and the teacup WATCHED.

But it worked! The teacup forgave her dance! (It still hates me specifically, but it forgave her dance.)

Now I drink water from a plain glass and I don’t look at ANY of the teacups and I am VERY polite to all crockery even though it’s RIDICULOUS.

Bramwell says this is character-building. I think it’s proof that I’m cursed.

Resolution: Teacup appeased through interpretive dance. Additional teacups departed. Pip now drinks from a plain glass and apologises to spoons.

Incident Four: The Great Directional Confusion

Date: 2nd December

Location: Various (that is the problem)

Responsible Party: The Library’s legs (disputed)

Bramwell’s Account:

The Library became lost.

This should not be possible. The Library is a sentient, ambulatory building with several decades of experience navigating MirMarnia. It knows where it is going. It always knows where it is going.

On the second of December, it did not know where it was going.

We first noticed when the Library stopped mid-stride in what appeared to be the middle of a lake. The legs stood perfectly still, water lapping at the doorframe, whilst the building seemed to... consider its options.

After approximately an hour, it turned completely around and walked back the way we had come, then stopped again, turned left, walked for three minutes, and stopped once more.

Mistress Spine went outside to investigate. She reported that the legs appeared to be arguing with each other. The front left leg wanted to go east. The back right leg insisted on going south. The middle legs had no opinions but were tired and wanted to rest.

This continued for six hours.

We attempted to consult maps. The Library has no use for maps. It goes where it is called. But apparently it had been called by two different places simultaneously and could not decide which summons to answer first.

Lyria eventually resolved the situation by standing on the front step and very clearly pointing north whilst humming something that sounded vaguely directional. The legs aligned, the Library set off with renewed purpose, and we arrived at our destination (a village near the Frostborne territories) by evening.

No one mentions this incident to the Library. It is sensitive about its navigational competence.

Pip’s Account:

WE WERE STANDING IN A LAKE.

JUST STANDING THERE.

I looked out the window and there was WATER. Just water. No shore. No path. Just the Library standing in the middle of a lake like it had forgotten how to Library.

And then we TURNED AROUND and walked back and I thought, “Oh good, we’re fixing the mistake,” but NO. We were just going to stand SOMEWHERE ELSE for a while and think about it.

Mistress Spine went outside to look at the legs. When she came back in, her face was doing something I’d never seen before. I think it was trying not to laugh. She said, “The legs are having a disagreement.”

THE LEGS WERE ARGUING.

WITH EACH OTHER.

We were stuck because the BUILDING’S FEET couldn’t agree on WHERE TO WALK.

Lyria saved us by humming and pointing, which makes as much sense as anything else that happens here, and eventually we started moving again but I could FEEL the legs sulking. They were walking all stiff and huffy like my sister used to walk when Mum said she couldn’t have cake before dinner.

I think the Library was embarrassed. I haven’t mentioned it since. Neither has anyone else. We have a collective agreement to pretend it never happened.

But it happened.

We got lost.

The building got lost.

I’m never going to feel confident about anything ever again.

Resolution: Library redirected through interpretive humming. Navigational confidence restored. Incident never to be mentioned again on pain of being assigned to the Restricted Section alone, at night, with no lantern.

Incident Five: The Autocurator’s Silent Treatment

Date: 16th December

Location: Entire Library

Responsible Party: Bramwell Corin (accused), the Autocurator (judge, jury, and executioner)

Bramwell’s Account:

I misshelved a book.

It was an honest mistake. “The Art of Asking Questions” was filed under Interrogation rather than Philosophy. The error was minor. The consequences were not.

The Autocurator stopped speaking to me.

This may not sound dire. The Autocurator rarely speaks at all, communicating instead through cryptic notes, pointed draughts, and the strategic relocation of furniture. But there is a difference between choosing not to speak and actively refusing to acknowledge one’s existence.

For three days, every request I made was ignored. I asked for the location of a particular manuscript. Silence. I requested assistance with a catalogue entry. The wind pointedly blew in the opposite direction. I attempted to access a locked cabinet. The key appeared on Pip’s desk instead of mine.

My chair was moved six inches to the left every morning. Not enough to be obviously wrong. Just enough to be persistently uncomfortable.

My tea appeared cold, despite being freshly poured.

A book fell on my head whilst I was reshelving. Not hard enough to injure. Hard enough to convey disapproval.

On the third day, I found a note on my desk: “When you are ready to properly respect the organisational system, I shall be ready to assist you.”

I re-shelved “The Art of Asking Questions” in Philosophy with a formal apology written on an index card and left in the cover. By evening, my tea was warm again and my chair had stopped moving.

I have not misshelved anything since.

Pip’s Account:

Bramwell made the Autocurator ANGRY and it was HILARIOUS.

The Autocurator is usually scary in a vague, general way. Like knowing there’s something watching you but not knowing what or why. But when it’s SPECIFICALLY angry with someone? It’s PETTY.

Bramwell’s chair kept moving! Just a little bit! Every single day! He’d sit down and something would be wrong but he couldn’t figure out what! He measured it with a ruler eventually. Six inches to the left. Every morning. Like clockwork. He was going MAD.

And his tea went cold! Instantly! Even when I made it for him and handed it to him WARM! I watched it happen! One second: warm tea. Next second: cold tea. Bramwell just stared at it like it had betrayed him personally.

The book falling on his head was the best part. He was just standing there, minding his own business, and THUNK. Right on the top of his head. He looked up at the ceiling like “Why.” The ceiling didn’t answer. The Autocurator doesn’t need to answer. It has MADE ITS POINT.

When Bramwell finally apologised (on an INDEX CARD, like the nerd he is), everything went back to normal and he pretended like nothing happened, but I SAW his face when his tea was warm again. He was RELIEVED.

I’m never misshelving anything. Ever. I’ve seen what happens.

Resolution: Book properly shelved. Apology accepted. Bramwell traumatised. Pip learned valuable lessons about organisational systems and the importance of not laughing at one’s colleagues’ suffering (he failed to learn this lesson).

Concluding Remarks (Bramwell Corin)

These incidents represent a small sampling of what can go wrong when working in a sentient, mobile library with opinions. I have not included the time Pip got stuck in a section that did not exist yesterday and will not exist tomorrow, or the incident involving Mistress Spine’s quill and an unfortunate grammatical dispute with three books of poetry, or the week that the Lantern Bearer’s lantern went out and we discovered that darkness in the Library is not merely absence of light but actively resistant to illumination.

What I have learned from compiling these accounts is this: the Library has standards. It expects us to meet them. When we fail, it expresses disappointment in creative and occasionally petty ways.

Also, I have learned that Pip uses far too many exclamation marks.

Additional Note (Added by Pip Thimble):

Bramwell uses far too FEW exclamation marks! Life is EXCITING and TERRIFYING and sometimes books ATTACK PEOPLE! This deserves punctuation that reflects the DRAMA of the situation!!!

Final Note (Added by Mistress Spine):

Both of you will use appropriate punctuation or I shall assign you to inventory the Restricted Section. Together. With no break for tea.

That is all.

Compiled over the course of one very long week, during which both Bramwell and Pip relitigated every incident in exhaustive detail. The Autocurator delivered tea at regular intervals. The tea was always the correct temperature. We are being watched.
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Author’s Note:

I hope this little glimpse into the Wandering Library’s habits gave you something curious to smile about. It remains a place of high standards, unpredictable moods and tea that is always the exact temperature, which I find both reassuring and slightly alarming. If you enjoyed the read, do like the post, leave a comment, or share it with someone who might appreciate the Library’s peculiar ways. Your support helps keep these MirMarnian wanderings alive.

-Chaiga T. Cheska