Part Twelve: Rescue Operations, A Chronicle of Embarrassment

Being a record of times the Library saved its staff from situations of their own making

Compiled by Bramwell Corin, under duress and with considerable reluctance

Editor’s Note

Mistress Spine has requested, demanded, actually, that I document the occasions on which the Wandering Library has intervened to rescue members of staff from various predicaments. She claims this will demonstrate the Library’s “protective instincts” and “commitment to staff welfare.”

I suspect she wants written evidence of everyone’s most embarrassing moments.

I have been assured that this document will remain confidential. I do not believe this assurance. Nevertheless, I am compiling it because Mistress Spine has implied that refusal would result in my being assigned to catalogue the Restricted Section’s collection of “Books That Scream When Opened.”

What follows is mortifying for everyone involved. The Library, however, appears to have found the entire series of incidents absolutely fascinating and has been behaving rather smugly ever since I began this compilation.

Date: 14th February (Valentine’s Day, cruelly)
Location: Wetlands north of Drakkensund
Situation: I attempted to collect botanical samples

Documentation:

Incident One: Bramwell and the Enthusiastic Bog

I had stepped outside to collect botanical samples for the Herbalism section. The ground appeared firm. It was not firm. Within approximately forty seconds, I had sunk to my knees in what I can only describe as aggressively enthusiastic mud.

I attempted to extract myself. This made things worse. Much worse. The bog seemed personally invested in my descent.

By the time I had sunk to my waist, I had accepted that this was how I would die: claimed by wetlands whilst holding a notebook and maintaining what little dignity remained available to a man being slowly consumed by mud.

I had been attempting to handle the situation quietly, as one does when one has made catastrophically poor navigational choices. But the Library repositioned itself beside the bog, extended what I can only describe as a small wooden platform from its lower level, and waited.

I stared at the platform. The platform seemed to stare back.

After approximately thirty seconds of stubborn silence on my part, one of the Library’s windows opened and Pip’s head emerged. He said, “Bramwell, the Library is trying to help you.”

I said, “I’m managing perfectly well, thank you.”

Pip said, “You’re waist-deep in a bog.”

I had no response that would preserve my dignity, so I climbed onto the platform. The Library retracted it smoothly, depositing me on solid ground covered in mud and shame.

When I said, “Thank you,” very quietly, one of the cabinet doors beside me opened briefly in what I interpreted as acknowledgement, then closed.

For three days afterwards, the Library positioned itself near bogs whenever we encountered them. Just standing there. Watching. As though monitoring my behaviour around wetlands.

Bramwell was up to his waist in mud, looking absolutely furious about it. Not scared. Just cross. Like the bog had personally insulted him, and he intended to outlast it on principle.

When the Library extended that platform, Bramwell tried to refuse rescue because accepting help would mean admitting he had made a mistake. He would rather sink than admit that. I have worked beside this man for months, and this remains the most Bramwell thing I have witnessed him do.

The Library saved him anyway and has been weirdly watchful about bogs ever since. Yesterday, we passed some marshland, and the Library slowed down, all the windows on one side oriented towards Bramwell with what I can only read as pointed supervision. He pretended not to notice. I saw him give the marsh a very suspicious look before we moved on.

Pip’s Commentary:

Mistress Spine was browsing market stalls for new quills when she apparently made sustained eye contact with a chicken. This, according to multiple witnesses, was her first mistake.

The chicken took this as a challenge.

What followed was described by onlookers as a surprisingly intense standoff between a librarian and a hen. Mistress Spine attempted to walk away. The chicken pursued. Mistress Spine walked faster. The chicken matched pace.

When Mistress Spine attempted to shoo the chicken, it responded by flying directly at her face with what witnesses described as unexpected determination and frankly alarming velocity.

Mistress Spine retreated. The chicken pressed its advantage. Mistress Spine retreated further. The chicken recruited two additional chickens to its cause through means unknown.

By the time the Library arrived, Mistress Spine was backed against a wall by three chickens working in coordinated formation. She was maintaining dignity through sheer force of will whilst clearly being besieged by poultry.

The Library positioned itself between Mistress Spine and the chickens. All the doors opened simultaneously. This apparently startled the chickens sufficiently that they dispersed.

Mistress Spine climbed through the nearest door without a word. The Library remained in the market square for ten additional minutes, doors open, as though daring the chickens to return.

They did not.

Mistress Spine will not discuss the chicken incident. She has forbidden all staff from mentioning it. When I tried to ask about it, she gave me a look that could curdle milk and said, “We do not speak of it.”

But I heard the story from three different market vendors, and they all agree: Mistress Spine was defeated by chickens and rescued by her own workplace. One of the vendors used the phrase “routed.” I have written it down here in case the record is ever disputed.

The Library has been incredibly smug about this. Whenever we pass chickens now, all the doors lock. She pretends not to notice. The Library is definitely noticing.

Dame Pellifrax sent her a pamphlet about chicken psychology. Mistress Spine threw it away. I retrieved it from the bin. It is actually quite informative.

Pip saw what he believed to be a puddle. It was not a puddle. It was a hole that had filled with water and disguised itself convincingly as a puddle.

Pip stepped directly into it and vanished completely beneath the surface.

I observed this from the Library’s window. One moment Pip was walking along the path; the next moment, he simply was not there. This was concerning.

The Library responded before I could. It moved with remarkable speed, positioned itself beside the puddle-that-was-not-a-puddle, and extended the same rescue platform it had used during my bog incident.

Pip surfaced, spluttering and holding his hat. The Library waited patiently whilst Pip climbed onto the platform, then retracted it and deposited him safely on the path.

Pip said, “Thank you, Library,” whilst dripping comprehensively onto the ground. Every window on the Library’s eastern side opened briefly in response, then closed.

For a week afterwards, the Library slowed down whenever we approached standing water. Any standing water. Including an ornamental fountain and someone’s birdbath.

That puddle was at least five feet deep. It had no business being that deep. Puddles should be shallow. That is the entire arrangement with puddles, and this one had departed from it entirely without notice.

I went completely under and had a brief moment of thinking, well, this is it, defeated by water, before the Library arrived and saved me with the same platform it used for Bramwell’s bog incident.

The Library appears to have a dedicated rescue platform for staff members who make poor decisions about terrain. This is both considerate and faintly insulting in equal measure.

It has been very careful around water ever since. Yesterday, it stopped beside a village pond for ten full minutes, all the windows oriented towards me in a way that asked a question I did not enjoy being asked. I am more careful about puddles now. The Library is less trusting of my judgment around water. We have both, in our own ways, learned something.

Lyria was performing interpretive dance in a clearing, communicating with what she believed was a cooperative tree. The tree was cooperative until approximately the seven-minute mark of her performance, at which point it apparently decided it had seen quite enough.

A large branch descended and caught the back of Lyria’s dress. When she attempted to continue dancing, the branch lifted her approximately forty feet off the ground, where she remained suspended, still moving her arms in what I assume were meant to be conciliatory gestures.

The tree did not respond to conciliation.

Lyria was explaining to the tree that she meant no disrespect when the Library arrived, positioned itself beneath her, and opened its roof access hatch directly below her suspended form.

The Library then began to vibrate.

Not violently. Just enough that the tree apparently found this concerning. After approximately two minutes of Library-vibration, the tree lowered Lyria gently through the open hatch, deposited her inside the Library, and withdrew its branch.

The Library closed the hatch and walked away whilst Lyria was still explaining her interpretive dance philosophy to no one in particular.

Lyria was dangling from a tree, trying to have a conversation with it about the language of movement, whilst the tree had clearly formed a firm opinion about the language of movement and wished the conversation to end.

The Library rescued her by vibrating, which I had not known buildings could do deliberately. When I asked Bramwell about it, he said, “The Library was expressing displeasure to the tree on Lyria’s behalf.”

So buildings and trees have a language between them. It involves vibrations and rustling, apparently, and the Library is fluent. This is another thing I know now that I could not have imagined knowing when I first arrived here.

Lyria maintains that the tree was simply providing an elevated perspective for her performance. The tree has offered no comment. The Library has been giving that particular tree a very deliberate look every time we pass through those woods, and I think something was settled between them that none of the rest of us were party to.

Thaddeus was researching a particularly complex genealogical dispute involving three elvish kindreds, two contradictory historical accounts, and a prophecy written in vanishing ink. He had surrounded himself with seventeen open books, forty-three loose pages of notes, and was cross-referencing footnotes at an increasingly frantic pace.

I did not observe what happened next, as I was in another room, but Pip witnessed it and has provided this account:

Thaddeus became overwhelmed by footnotes. Literally overwhelmed. The footnotes began appearing in the air around him, multiplying faster than he could read them. Within minutes, he was surrounded by a cloud of hovering annotations, sub-clauses, and bibliographic references, all demanding his attention simultaneously.

Thaddeus attempted to read them all. This was a mistake. He became increasingly pale and unfocused, trapped in what can only be described as a footnote spiral of no obvious exit.

The Library responded by closing every single book in the room simultaneously. The footnotes, deprived of their source material, vanished. Thaddeus sat in sudden silence, looking confused and considerably relieved.

The Library then refused to let Thaddeus open more than three books at once for the following week. Every time he attempted to exceed this limit, the books closed themselves firmly.

Thaddeus disappeared into a cloud of footnotes, and each footnote was referencing further footnotes, and those footnotes had opinions about other footnotes, and the whole thing was accelerating towards something that had no ending in it. I watched him go pale and thought: We are losing him to annotations.

The Library ended it in a single moment. Every book shut at once, clean and final, and the footnotes simply ceased to exist without their sources. It was rather impressive.

Thaddeus tried to argue the case for seventeen books. The Library held its three-book limit without negotiation for six full days. When Thaddeus reached for a fourth book, the book scooted away from his hand. Not dramatically. Just enough.

He works within the limit now. The Library watches him. Some lessons only need teaching once.

Dame Pellifrax was conducting weather observations when the weather took exception to being observed. A localised thunderstorm formed directly above her position and began what she described as “following me about, making pointed comments through lightning.”

She attempted to negotiate with the storm. The storm responded by increasing its commentary. She attempted to relocate. The storm relocated with her, maintaining its position directly overhead whilst expressing its feelings through increasingly emphatic thunder.

After twenty minutes of being personally targeted by meteorological disapproval, Dame Pellifrax was becoming damp and concerned.

The Library arrived, positioned itself directly over Dame Pellifrax, and essentially became a building-sized umbrella. The storm attempted to continue its harassment but found itself raining on a library that did not care about rain and was significantly larger than one damp meteorologist.

The storm eventually moved on to bother someone else. Dame Pellifrax dried off in the staff room and sent the Library a formal thank-you note despite working here and being perfectly capable of saying thank you in person.

The note is framed in Mistress Spine’s office.

The image of the Library standing in an open field being rained on, completely unmoved, whilst Dame Pellifrax sat inside drinking tea, is one I return to frequently. The storm was making a very strong point, and the Library simply absorbed it, all of it, and refused to shift an inch.

Dame Pellifrax’s thank-you note is very formal and includes the phrase “your prompt intervention prevented extensive dampness,” which is, I think, the most Dame Pellifrax sentence that has ever existed. The Library kept the note where everyone can see it. It is rather proud, I think, and justifiably so.

Against all better judgment, the entire staff decided to explore the Ravines on foot whilst the Library was stationed nearby. This was, in retrospect, catastrophically poor planning.

We had been in the Ravines for approximately thirty minutes when we heard it: the scraping of claws on stone. Deliberate. Patient. The Virehound.

We ran. Not tactically. Not in any formation whatsoever. Simply ran.

The Library, observing this from its position above the Ravines, apparently decided we were all beyond help and required immediate intervention. It walked to the edge, extended every rescue platform it possessed, and waited. There are apparently five of them. We had only known about one.

We scrambled up various platforms whilst the Virehound watched from the shadows below. I do not know if it was amused. I was too occupied with climbing to consider the question.

The Library retracted all platforms once we were aboard, walked a considerable distance from the Ravines, and then refused to let anyone leave for three hours.

We sat inside like scolded children whilst the Library processed its disappointment in our collective decision-making.

We nearly got eaten by a Virehound because we all walked together into the one place we are specifically told not to walk. There is no charitable interpretation of this. We were all foolish in the same direction at the same time, which is somehow worse than being foolish individually.

The Library rescued us and then grounded us. Three hours, every door locked, every window closed, the building moving steadily away from danger whilst we sat inside feeling the full weight of what we had done. When the doors finally opened, Mistress Spine was the first out, and she patted the doorframe and said, “Thank you. We deserved that.” The door closed gently behind her.

The Library now monitors our outdoor activities. Whenever anyone so much as suggests exploring somewhere inadvisable, books fall off shelves with pointed timing, and the relevant doors become difficult to persuade open.

We have learned. We are learning. The Library is patient with us, which is more than we deserve.

The Wandering Library has rescued every member of staff at least once. These rescues reveal several things:

Firstly, we all make terrible decisions occasionally. Secondly, the Library pays attention to where we are and what we are doing. Thirdly, it has developed specific rescue protocols: multiple platforms, the capacity to become an umbrella, communication through vibration, and the intimidation of trees. Fourthly, it is genuinely invested in staff survival. Fifthly, it also appears to find our various misadventures fascinating in the way one might find a particularly entertaining theatrical production fascinating, whilst remaining deeply invested in the outcome.

I am not certain whether to be grateful or mortified that my workplace monitors my proximity to bogs.

I am both.

The Library has read this document. It has expressed its opinion by installing a new shelf in the reading room specifically for books about “Survival Skills for the Persistently Unfortunate.” This shelf is positioned where all staff members can see it clearly.

Message received.

This document confirms what I have long suspected: the Library is more responsible than its staff. This is embarrassing for everyone except the Library.

We are implementing mandatory safety training. The Library will be supervising.

Also, we are never discussing the chicken incident again. This is not negotiable.

The Library rescues us because it cares. Buildings do not develop five different rescue platforms unless they are genuinely concerned about the people inside them.

Yes, we are all embarrassed. Yes, the Library is rather smug about it. But I would far rather work in a building that fishes me out of deep puddles than one that watches me drown on principle.

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Compiled with considerable reluctance and minimal dignity. The rescue platforms are maintained in good working order. The Library practises extending them weekly. We are grateful. We are also never going near the Ravines again.