The Wandering Library of MirMarnia: A Series
Part Sixteen: On Panic, Dignity, and the Terror of Windborne Rubbish
(This Artwork was created on Procreate by Chaiga T. Cheska)
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Being an account of the time, our workplace fled from a paper bag
Compiled by Bramwell Corin, who is still finding his dignity
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Preface
I am writing this document from inside a sulking library that is parked in a meadow and refusing to move.
My posterior has recently been in the air. My feet have recently been where my head should be. I have been witnessed in this configuration by three visiting scholars, Mistress Spine, and a very confused chicken that wandered in during the chaos.
Pip is writing his portion of this account from a horizontal position, as he cannot sit comfortably due to injuries sustained during our workplace’s panic response to what turned out to be an empty paper bag caught in the wind.
The Library will not return to where we were stationed until we promise not to laugh at it. We cannot promise this. We have been laughing for six hours. The Library is aware of this, which is why we are still in the meadow.
What follows is a professional account of an entirely unprofessional incident.
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The Meeting
Bramwell’s Account (10:15 AM)
We were hosting a meeting with representatives from the Royal Archives regarding inter-institutional book lending protocols. This was an important meeting. Critically important. These were serious people discussing serious matters in a serious manner.
I was sitting in my usual chair. I had not noticed that the chair had become increasingly rickety over recent weeks, as the Library’s enthusiastic floor rearrangements had loosened several crucial joints. This oversight would prove consequential.
Present at the meeting:
Myself (chair, regrettably)
Mistress Spine (head of table, back to the window, dignity intact)
Archivist Pemberton (Royal Archives, tremendously formal)
Scholar Wickham (Royal Archives, possessed of unfortunate moustaches)
Scribe Hartley (Royal Archives, taking minutes in impeccable handwriting)
(Pip was not present, having apparently absented himself from the meeting room for reasons that will become apparent shortly and which I decline to describe as valid)
The discussion had reached the complex matter of overdue book penalties when I observed, through the window behind Mistress Spine, a paper bag tumbling across the meadow towards us.
It was brown. It was empty. It was moving with the wind in that peculiar way paper bags have of appearing almost alive when caught in a breeze.
I had just enough time to think: “That is heading directly for us.”
The Library noticed it approximately three seconds before impact.
What Happened Next
(Three accounts, each of which is accurate and none of which makes the situation better)
Bramwell’s Experience
The paper bag touched the Library’s western wall with a soft rustling sound.
The Library panicked.
I have no other word for it. The entire structure lurched violently forward as though it had been struck by something considerably more threatening than bakery packaging.
My chair, already compromised, could not withstand the sudden movement. The back legs gave way entirely. I went over backwards at tremendous speed.
Time dilated in that peculiar way it does during disasters. I observed, in sequence:
The ceiling approaching my field of vision
My feet rising past my line of sight
Scholar Wickham’s face expressing profound alarm
The realisation that I was now upside down in a broken chair
My posterior achieving altitude previously unknown to it
The papers I had been holding distributing themselves across the room like very formal confetti
The visiting scholars staring at my feet, which were now where my head should be
The chicken, which had entered through a door flung open during the Library’s lurch, regarding me with what I can only describe as judgmental curiosity
I lay there, inverted, surrounded by broken chair and scattered documentation, whilst the Library continued its panicked flight and the meeting descended into chaos.
“I can explain,” I said to the upside-down faces peering at me.
I could not explain. I was upside down. The building was running. A chicken was watching me.
Mistress Spine’s Account (Same moment, different perspective)
Bramwell went over backwards in his chair with a crash that suggested both furniture failure and dignity collapse. His feet rose into the air with unexpected grace. His posterior achieved prominence. His expression was one of profound dismay.
I had been facing the room, not the window. I felt the lurch. I did not see the cause. I observed, in the same moment: Archivist Pemberton dropping his tea; Scholar Wickham leaping to his feet in alarm; Scribe Hartley attempting to record the incident in the official minutes (later examination revealed the phrase “Chair catastrophe, Corin inverted, meeting suspended”); and the Library continuing to run at frankly impressive speeds for a building.
I stood. “Meeting adjourned. Please excuse us. Architectural emergency.”
Archivist Pemberton, still staring at Bramwell’s airborne feet, said, “I... yes. Quite.”
Pip’s Simultaneous Catastrophe
I was not in the meeting. I had been in the meeting, briefly, but Scholar Wickham’s moustaches were making it very difficult to take the proceedings seriously, and I had needed to step out before I disgraced myself. I was in the small bathroom adjacent to the meeting room, brushing my teeth. I had had onions at breakfast. The visiting scholars were very formal. I was being conscientious about oral hygiene.
The Library lurched forward.
I was mid-brush, leaning over the sink, when the entire building moved. My feet went out from under me. My elbow, toothbrush still in hand, went directly into the toilet bowl.
Not gently. Not partially. Fully submerged. Elbow-deep.
I remained in this position for several seconds, too shocked to move, toothbrush still clenched in my fist, arm in toilet water, listening to Bramwell crash over in his chair in the next room.
When I finally extracted my arm, the toothbrush came with it. Dripping. Ruined.
I stood there, soaking wet from elbow to fingertips, and made a decision: I would tell no one about this.
This decision lasted until I returned to the room, at which point Bramwell saw my wet arm and demanded an explanation.
The Flight
Collective Account
The Library ran for approximately seven minutes at speeds that suggested genuine terror. We travelled an estimated two miles before Mistress Spine managed to gain control of the situation by standing at a window and shouting, “STOP. WHATEVER THIS IS, STOP NOW.”
The Library slowed but did not stop completely. It was, apparently, still processing.
Interior Chaos Report
During the flight, the following occurred:
Every book not properly shelved fell to the floor
Pip’s wet arm soaked three books about hygiene (symbolic, perhaps)
The tea trolley overturned (tragic)
Archivist Pemberton lost his hat through a window (recovered later in a hedge)
The chicken laid an egg in the Restricted Section (security implications unclear)
Bramwell remained inverted in the broken chair for the first minute of flight, as attempting to right himself during a building’s panic seemed unwise
When the Library finally stopped, we were in an unfamiliar meadowland. The visiting scholars were traumatised. Bramwell was vertical again but profoundly dishevelled. Pip was dripping onto the carpet. The chicken had integrated itself into the collection and showed no signs of leaving.
“Right,” said Mistress Spine. “Someone explain what just happened.”
Bramwell said, “I believe I may have seen what started it. Just before the lurch, there was something through the window. Coming across the meadow. I should like to go back and check.”
The Investigation (Bramwell, 10:34 AM)
I retraced the Library’s route on foot, walking back along the path the building had carved through the meadow, which was marked by disturbed earth and what appeared to be skid marks from a building attempting to stop quickly.
I found it approximately one hundred yards from our original position. Caught on a bush, rustling gently in the breeze.
Brown. Empty. Approximately eight inches square. Formerly contained baked goods, judging by residual crumbs.
I returned to where Mistress Spine was waiting and held it up.
She stared at it for a long moment.
“This,” she said, “is what caused our building to flee two miles.”
“So it appears.”
“A paper bag.”
“An empty one.”
We stood in silence. The bag rustled benignly in my hand.
“This is going to be difficult to manage,” I said.
“Yes.”
We returned to the Library. The plan was to show the building what it had fled from, to demonstrate that the threat was negligible. This plan proved optimistic.
The Calming Attempt: Phase One (Failure)
Bramwell’s Account
I approached the Library holding the paper bag at arm’s length. The idea was to demonstrate its harmlessness through calm, rational presentation.
The Library’s windows immediately oriented away from me. All of them. Simultaneously.
“Library,” I said gently, “this is just a bag. It contained bread rolls. It is empty now. There is nothing to fear.”
I took a step closer.
The Library took a step backwards.
“It is made of paper. Very thin paper. Look, I can crumple it easily.” I demonstrated.
The crinkling sound caused every door in the building to slam shut simultaneously.
“Bramwell,” Mistress Spine called from a window, “stop crinkling the bag. You are making it worse.”
I stopped crinkling. The Library remained tense, all windows still averted.
Pip’s Suggestion (10:47 AM)
“What if we just get rid of the bag? Throw it away where the Library can see we’re disposing of it?”
This seemed reasonable. We attempted disposal.
I walked to a nearby rubbish bin, bag held aloft, making exaggerated motions to show I was removing the threat.
The Library watched through one partially opened window. Suspicious. Wary.
I placed the bag in the bin. I stepped back. I showed my empty hands.
“See? Gone. No more bag. Everything’s fine.”
A breeze chose that moment to lift the bag from the bin and send it tumbling directly towards the Library.
The Library ran another quarter mile before we could stop it.
The visiting scholars were now stranded in a meadow, watching a mobile library flee from an empty paper bag for the second time. Their expressions suggested they were reconsidering their institution’s relationship with ours.
The Calming Attempt: Phase Two (Partial Success)
Lyria’s Intervention
Lyria suggested interpretive dance. We were desperate enough to allow it.
She positioned herself between the Library and the bag, which Pip had recaptured and was holding very, very still. She began to dance.
The dance appeared to be about wind, harmlessness, and the transient nature of paper products. I cannot be certain. Interpretive dance remains largely opaque to me.
The Library watched. One window opened slightly. Then another.
Lyria continued. Her movements became gentle, reassuring, incorporating gestures that seemed to say: look, it is just air and paper. Nothing threatening. Only materials doing material things.
The Library opened another window. Progress.
Then the bag rustled in Pip’s grip. Small sound. Barely noticeable.
The Library’s windows slammed shut. Lyria stopped dancing.
“Right,” said Mistress Spine. “New approach needed.”
Dame Pellifrax’s Strategy (11:15 AM)
Dame Pellifrax arrived after receiving an urgent message about “architectural panic and scattered scholars.” She assessed the situation with characteristic calm.
“The Library,” she announced, “has experienced a fright. It responded as any creature might when startled: it ran. Now it is embarrassed. Buildings do not like being embarrassed.”
“How do we calm an embarrassed building?” I asked.
“Same way you calm an embarrassed person. Give it time. Give it space. Do not mention the bag.”
“We need to show that the bag is not dangerous,” Mistress Spine countered.
“No,” Dame Pellifrax said firmly. “You need to let it save face. It ran from a paper bag. That is humiliating. The more you acknowledge what it ran from, the more humiliated it becomes. Let it recover quietly.”
This seemed wise. We implemented Dame Pellifrax’s approach.
The Waiting Game (11:30 AM to 1:45 PM)
We left the Library alone in its meadow. The bag was destroyed, burnt with some ceremony, the ashes scattered to prevent any further breezes making use of it. The visiting scholars were given tea and biscuits and asked to please not mention this incident in their reports. They agreed, though Scholar Wickham was already composing what he called “a strongly worded letter about workplace safety.”
We waited at a respectful distance. The Library remained in its meadow, all windows closed, looking as sullen as architecture can look.
Pip suggested singing to it. We declined.
I suggested reading to it. We agreed this was worth attempting.
Bramwell’s Reading (2:00 PM)
I approached to within fifty feet of the Library and sat down on the grass. I opened a book, “The Nature of Courage,” which seemed appropriate, and began reading aloud.
The Library ignored me for twenty minutes.
Then one window opened. Just slightly. Just enough to hear better.
I continued reading. The chapter was about how even the bravest creatures sometimes flee from unexpected threats. How there is no shame in instinctive response to surprise. How courage is not the absence of fear but continuing despite it.
Another window opened.
I read about recovery from embarrassment. About dust settling. About how everyone, everything, has moments of panic that seem foolish in retrospect.
The Library’s front door opened approximately six inches.
I closed the book. “Do you feel better now?”
The door opened another foot, and we were allowed back inside the Library.
“No one is laughing at you,” I lied. We had all been laughing for hours. But we were prepared to lie convincingly.
The Library, slowly, carefully, walked back towards our original position.
The Return (2:47 PM)
The Library repositioned itself approximately where we had been stationed before the incident. It settled with what sounded like a resigned sigh: all the structural creaks one hears when a building relaxes after stress.
The visiting scholars were still present, having nowhere else to go. We attempted to resume the meeting.
“Gentlemen,” Mistress Spine began, “we apologise for the interruption. Shall we continue discussing overdue book penalties?”
Archivist Pemberton looked at Bramwell, whose hair was still dishevelled from his inverted chair incident. He looked at Pip, whose arm was still damp. He looked at the chicken, which was now sitting on a bookshelf looking proprietary.
“Perhaps,” he said delicately, “we might reschedule. For a time when your establishment is feeling more settled.”
We agreed this was wise.
The scholars departed with exceptional haste. Scholar Wickham’s strongly worded letter arrived three days later. It was, given the circumstances, actually quite understanding.
The Aftermath
Bramwell’s Injuries:
Bruised dignity (severe)
Minor back strain from chair inversion
Torn trouser knee from chair entanglement
Psychological trauma from having been observed with posterior skyward
Pip’s Injuries:
Bruised elbow (moderate)
Bruised pride (severe)
Profound psychological distress from toilet incident
Could not brush teeth with full confidence for three days
Library’s Recovery:
The Library remained skittish around paper products for a week. Any loose paper caught in the wind caused visible tension: windows tightening, doors rattling nervously.
We implemented a strict “no loose paper outdoors” policy. All documents secured. All bags weighted or contained.
The Library gradually recovered its nerve. By week’s end, it could tolerate a newspaper in a moderate breeze without fleeing.
The Chicken Situation:
The chicken refused to leave. It had found the Restricted Section comfortable and was producing eggs with regularity. We named it Pemberton, after the archivist. It seemed fitting.
Pemberton the chicken now lives in the Library permanently. We are calling it a “living collection enhancement.” The chicken has not been consulted about this designation.
Concluding Remarks
The Wandering Library panicked upon encountering a paper bag. This caused one chair catastrophe, resulting in my inversion, one toilet incident traumatising Pip in ways he is still processing, one multi-mile panic flight across unfamiliar meadowland, three visiting scholars questioning our professionalism at length, and one chicken becoming a permanent resident of the Restricted Section.
I have arrived, through this experience, at several conclusions. Buildings can be startled by trivial things, just as people can. Rickety chairs are dangerous during architectural panic and should be inspected regularly. Brushing one’s teeth near the toilet during emergencies is inadvisable. Dame Pellifrax understands embarrassment management better than anyone I have encountered, and her approach of simply allowing an embarrassed building to recover its dignity quietly was the only thing that worked. Chickens, once settled, are immovable.
The Library has recovered. We have recovered. Mostly. Pip still flinches when I mention toothbrushes.
The meeting with the Royal Archives has been rescheduled for next month. We are preparing thoroughly. All chairs have been tested for structural integrity. All loose paper has been secured. The chicken has been given strict instructions about appropriate behaviour during formal meetings.
We are professionals. We work in a building that fled from a paper bag. These things are, somehow, not mutually exclusive.
Final Notes (Added by Mistress Spine)
This incident is closed. We do not discuss the paper bag. We do not discuss Bramwell’s aerial posterior. We especially do not discuss Pip’s elbow placement.
The chicken stays. It is already filed alphabetically between “Poultry in Literature” and “Unexpected Acquisitions.”
Additional Notes (Added by Pip Thimble)
My arm was in a toilet. My toothbrush touched toilet water. I may never brush my teeth with full confidence again.
Bramwell was upside down in front of three archivists and he is worried about his dignity. I was elbow-deep in toilet water, and somehow I am less traumatised than he is. I do not know what this says about either of us.
The Library panicked and ran two miles from a paper bag. We were thrown about inside it and ended up injured in various undignified configurations. And then we all waited in a meadow and coaxed it home again. That is simply what this place is. Chaos, and then everyone picks themselves up and carries on.
Pemberton, the chicken, laid another egg this morning, in the Poetry section. I think that is symbolic, but I am too tired to determine what.
Compiled from a position of recovered dignity (contested). The Library has learned to manage paper-based anxiety. We have learned to secure chairs and avoid toilets during emergencies. Pemberton the chicken has learned nothing but continues thriving. The tea was insufficient. It usually is.
Author’s Note:
This report arrived folded into an origami shape Bramwell called “a precaution.” I have decided not to unfold it any further than necessary.
If you feel moved to share this with your colleagues and friends, the Archivists assure me it improves morale and lets me know you’re still with us and not lost in a corridor.
-Chaiga T. Cheska