Short Story Contest! And the Winner is…

At long last, it is my great pleasure to share with you the winner of my first ever short story contest (drumroll, please . . .)

The Book of Thyme by J. L. Rowan!

Prepare to be charmed by this lovely story based on one of Harris Burdick’s mysterious drawings. This tale has everything! Intrigue, magic, books, a touch of romance, and even tea and scones. I was absolutely captivated by this tale and I hope you’ll find it worth the wait!

Leave some good vibes in the comments when you get to the end for J. L. Rowan! And if you missed the two runners up, you can read their fabulous stories here and here.

---

The Book of Thyme

by J. L. Rowan

*****

Midtown Manhattan in early summer—was anything more glorious? Kaileigh McCall sauntered up Madison Avenue with a sigh of contentment. The warm sun sparkled in a thousand windows and a gentle breeze tousled her hair. She’d spent the morning in Madison Square Park, reading Tennyson and sketching the images conjured by his words. It was impossible that the day could be more magical.

She crossed over to 5^th Avenue and turned up West 40^th Street, heading for Le Pain Quotidien for a bit of lunch before returning home for an afternoon of study. An undergrad at Columbia, she was enrolled in upper-level history and literature classes for the fall semester, but only by the good graces of her professors. She needed to complete two summer course prerequisites to hold those spots; consequently, she spent most of her time with her nose in a book.

Unwilling as yet to surrender her thoughts to the mundane, she pondered Tennyson anew as she strolled past Blue Bottle Coffee. A cursory glance, however, turned into a double-take that scattered all her dreamy musings. She stopped cold on the sidewalk to stare at what only yesterday had been her favorite coffee spot, but was now an aged and weathered bookshop that looked as if it belonged in medieval England. Crooked stone steps graced its entry, and above the iron-hinged door hung a quaint, hand-painted sign that read A Step In Time. The small window through which she could see its books was clouded and in need of a thorough washing.

How was this possible? The back of her neck and her arms prickled as her hair stood on end. Things moved quickly in New York, but not like this. She glanced around at the passersby, but none seemed to notice the displacement. Ignoring her hunger, she sidled through the midday throng to the door of the bookshop. It had no knob, only a wrought handle to match the hinges, and when she grasped it, a curious sensation shot up her arm like lightning. Instinctively, she let go and backed down a step.

She took in the shop once more and then glanced again at the crowds passing by. Still, no one seemed to notice.

She stared at the door handle. If she were smart, she’d walk away.

If. Her roommate often said she was more cat than human.

She pulled open the door and entered.

Silence enveloped her as she crossed the threshold, as if all of New York had been swallowed up by the past. A step in time, indeed, she thought. She shut the door and glanced around. As though from another age, the floors and walls and furnishings were fashioned from oak and smoothed from years of use. There were no lights that she could see, save for a few burning candles, but it was bright enough. To her right, near the window, stood a small shelf of books and a table with chairs. Facing her stood a half a dozen rows of shelves beneath a railed balcony accessible by a spiral staircase in the back corner. Atop the balcony stood six more rows of bookshelves, and the air was filled with the mingling scents of leather and linen and herbs.

She stepped farther in and peered about. “Hello?”

“Ah,” came a soft, answering voice from amongst the shelves, “I was wondering who would be first to find us.” The quiet shuffle of feet heralded the appearance of an elderly man dressed in a long, blue robe. His bright blue eyes sparkled as he took her in. “And what a pretty young lady you are.” His voice held the faint lilt of a Scottish accent.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m Kaileigh.”

He tottered forward with a smile, his white cloud of hair framing his face like a halo. “My name is Bedran. It’s a delight to meet you.”

She bowed slightly (it seemed the proper thing to do). “You’re very kind.” She glanced around. “Your shop is beautiful, sir, but if you’ll forgive me, it—well, it wasn’t here yesterday. Blue Bottle was here. I know, because I stopped and got coffee on my way home, so I don’t see how it’s possible that you could be here today.”

He merely smiled at her. “We’re not a shop, my dear.”

That was hardly the point, but she couldn’t resist the bait. “What are you, then? A museum? A library?”

He considered her question with a wrinkle of his nose. “A bit of both, I imagine.”

“But how did you—”

“Won’t you look around?” He gestured to the shelves. “We have over a thousand books. I’m sure we have something to tempt you.”

“Yes, but you—”

“You look around, now, while I get tea.” He disappeared back into the shelves. “We always have tea for our guests, and you must be hungry.”

“I—”

But he was gone.

She sighed and surveyed her surroundings. She was hungry, and certainly intrigued. It couldn’t hurt to look around, and she didn’t want to leave without an answer to her question. She started atop the balcony, wending her way among shelves that held an array of books from herbals and medicines to law and astronomy. She made her way down the stairs and moved more slowly among the lower shelves, for they held history and literature, including several first editions of her favorite classics. Some even bore their authors’ signatures.

As she trailed down the fourth row, a rather odd book stood out among its treasures. Taller than its surrounding companions, it was bound in the Coptic style, with an open spine, and covered in a soft leather. When she opened it, she discovered not printed pages, but handwritten ones. She brought the book closer to study the paper. Embedded within were tiny bits of green, and it carried the faint scent of a warm summer day. She turned back to the first page. Amidst an ornate illumination in gold and lapis blue were inscribed the words The Book of Thyme in a flowing hand and a bold, black ink.

“Ah, one of our oldest manuscripts.”

She looked up to find Bedran standing before her, a heavily-laden tray in his hands. “Oh, let me help you!” She took the tray and gave him the book. “Where shall I put this?”

He glanced over her shoulder. “The table out front.”

 

 

“Of course.” She preceded him, set down the tray, and waited for him to catch up. “Shall I pour?” she asked as he settled into one of the chairs.

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” After pouring the tea, she arranged a scone, a petit four, and two small sandwiches on a plate for him before helping  herself.

They ate in silence for a time until she nodded to the book he had set beside his plate. “Is that a cookbook?”

A hint of a smile played about his lips. “No. The Book of Thyme is a tale.” He broke open his scone.

“That’s a strange name for a story.” She bit into her cucumber sandwich. “Of what sort is it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.” He reached for the dish of clotted cream and spooned a generous amount on his scone.

She sipped her tea, a lovely Earl Grey. “Oh, you’ve never read it?”

“Aye, I’ve read it, but I can’t tell you what it says.”

 

She lifted an eyebrow and tried to hide a smile. “It’s a secret, then?”

“In a way,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “The tale I read will not be the tale you read. It’s different every time.” He added a dollop of raspberry jam.

She looked at him askance over the rim of her cup. “That makes no sense at all. A book can’t change each time it’s read.”

He laid down his spoon and held her gaze in all earnestness. “My dear girl, of course it can. It’s magic.”

She smiled politely, but a chill ran down her spine. “Magic? There’s no such—” She could not complete her sentence under his intense stare. Her smile faded. She cleared her throat and finished her tea. “How is that possible?” It wasn’t, of course, but he apparently believed so. She set her cup back in its saucer and wondered that he was entrusted with the care of such valuable treasures.

He shrugged. “I don’t ask those kinds of questions.”

As he made short work of his scone, her glance fell on the book, and she pulled it close. Magic was impossible, as impossible as this library should have been—yet here it stood. She didn’t know what to think. “What was your story about?”

“Ah.” He leaned back in his chair with his tea. “I went on a rousing adventure, a tale of intrigue and honor not unlike The Three Musketeers. But the time before that was a rather dull mystery. Easily solved.” He took a sip of tea. “Most disappointing, I must say.”

“You’ve read it more than once?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

She didn’t really know how to answer him, so she turned her attention to the covering. “I hadn’t noticed the blind tooling.” She ran her fingers over the faint impressions in the leather. “This looks like a vine. Is it thyme?”

He straightened. “Aye. Thyme is a magical herb. It can help you to leave the old behind and begin anew.”

“The herb of second chances,” she murmured. Who wouldn’t want that? She opened the book’s cover to gaze again at the title page. Something about it, something she could not place, drew her in. “I must confess, I’m quite curious now.” She glanced up at Bedran. “May I read it?”

“Of course, my dear.” He set down his cup and leaned forward. “But I must caution you: you must never let the pages get wet, not even by a single drop, for then the tale would cease to be a tale.”

She gasped. “Oh, I would never read it while drinking anything. I know better than that.” As if to prove it, she pushed her empty teacup farther away.

He favored her with an indulgent smile. “I was referring to your tears, child. If your tale is tragic—or even amusing—you may be at risk.” He closed the book and rested his hand atop it. “The book is magical, but that doesn’t make it benign.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said, hoping she sounded more sincere than skeptical. She attended Columbia, for goodness’ sake, not Hogwarts. “I have class in the morning, but I could return tomorrow afternoon to start reading it.”

“Read it here? Nonsense.” He pushed back his chair and rose. “Take it with you, my dear,” he said, collecting his empty dishes.

“Take it with me?” She helped him clean up the table. “You would let me do that?”

“Of course.”

“But I’m a perfect stranger. You don’t even know me.”

He stopped his work and took her hand. “I know you have a kind heart. And even though you don’t believe in magic—”

She blushed.

“—I know you have enough respect to take proper care of this book.” With a smile, he leaned in close. “And I’m betting you’ll be curious enough to return after you’ve read it.”

With a sigh, she held his gaze. “You know, any number of people who might come in here would be only too happy to steal this book.” She patted his hand. “Truly, you should be more careful.”

“Bless you, my dear,” he said as an enigmatic smile graced his lips, “but you are not one of them, and it always finds its way home.” He lifted her hand and placed a gallant kiss on the back of it.

It was a cryptic reply, but she wasn’t going to argue. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He shooed her toward the door. “Off with you now, and mind well what I have said.”

She hugged the book close with one hand and fluttered a goodbye with the other. “I will, and I’ll be back soon.” As she opened the door and stepped down, the jolt of New York life hit her so hard she froze on the steps. She closed her eyes and drew in a slow, deep breath until the bustle and noise no longer overwhelmed her. As she joined the flow of traffic on the sidewalk, she glanced back over her shoulder. “What a strange little place.” She realized then that Bedran never did tell her how it had come to replace Blue Bottle. Well, the book wasn’t terribly thick, so she suspected it wouldn’t take her long to finish it. She’d ask him again when she returned.

*****

With a sob, Kaileigh set the book down on the bed beside her. She’d been up so late studying that she’d only meant to read a few pages after she’d crawled into bed—but three hours and two tissue boxes later, she was still awake.

An epic poem, The Ladye and the Prince told the tale of Aurus, a prince whose beloved uncle, the king of a neighboring state, had been murdered by Roher, a usurper to the throne. Roher then took Galwyn, the king’s daughter and Aurus’ love, to wife against her will. As soon as Aurus discovered Roher’s treachery, he fled across the border with a small army to rescue Galwyn, but Roher poisoned her mind and convinced her that Aurus had forsaken her. Bereft and in despair, she threw herself from the upper window of the tower as Aurus rode into the courtyard. Unable to bear his grief, he rode his horse off the brink of a cliff, perishing on the rocks below.

As she’d read, she’d been pulled deeper and deeper into the world woven by the poem, until she could feel what Galwyn was feeling. She lived the pain and fear and doubt and even the encroaching madness forced upon her by the wicked Roher. But oh, the love she had known! She felt Aurus’ love for her and her love for Aurus as if he were alive and real and with her in her room.

And when the poem ended and they were forever parted . . .

She pulled the book close, seeking those final stanzas where Galwyn stood at her tower window. As her eyes traced the familiar lines, the meter and rhyme slipped away. “You promised,” she whispered, bowing her head. The words themselves vanished as the epic enveloped her once more.

“You promised,” wept Galwyn, clutching the letter Roher had given her, the letter sealed with Aurus’ signet ring.  On the other side of the room, Aurus’ portrait hung mute, his handsome face blurred by her tears.

He had abandoned her to Roher, unwilling to risk a war that might destroy both kingdoms.

Sobbing, she stumbled to the open casement and gazed at the courtyard below. Never had she thought Aurus would prove false to her. The sun would sooner set in the east. It was impossible that Roher—wicked Roher—had spoken truth and Aurus lies. But for the letter she held in her hand, she could scarce believe it. Nor could she bear it.

She let the parchment slip from her fingers as she studied the smooth stones that paved the courtyard. What did it matter now if she waited for him? What did anything matter? He was her life, and he was gone. What did it signify to continue breathing?

The faint neigh of a horse sounded in the distance as she gripped the edge of the casement. Roher, most like, returning in triumph. She would not be his prize . . .

With a start, Kaileigh came to herself, and for a moment did not recognize her surroundings, so caught was she in the tale. She took a slow breath and wiped away her tears, only now understanding what Bedran had meant when he described his own experience reading the book. It was a good thing her roommate was out of town for a week—she could not have explained her inconsolable grief with any rational sense.

Exhausted and spent, she gathered up the used tissues and threw them over the edge of the bed toward the wastebasket beside the nightstand. She’d clean them up tomorrow. As she picked up the final few, her gaze fell on the open book.

Her hand froze.

There on the corner of the page closest to her lay a teardrop. With a gasp, she blotted it with a tissue, minding Bedran’s warning. She’d thought it odd at the time, but now realized why he’d given it. It had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with more practical matters: any water on the pages would surely smear the ink, and if the ink smeared, the tale would indeed cease to be a tale. Her tear had come perilously close to staining one of the words. With a sigh, she blotted the page again. While not a magical book, it was certainly old and valuable, and really, he shouldn’t be giving it out at all.

She pulled it close and peered at it. She didn’t think she’d done any real damage, but she would confess and apologize to Bedran when she returned the book. No, there was only a small wet spot where the linen fibers of the page had absorbed what little remained after she’d brushed it away. It should quickly dry. With a sigh of relief, she put it beside her on the bed.

She closed her eyes and lay back against the pillow, her thoughts turning to Aurus and his devotion. Oh, Galwyn! If only she had waited a few more moments. If only she hadn’t believed Roher’s lies. Aurus loved her. How could she have doubted that?

More tears escaped from the corners of her eyes and trickled over her temples to dampen her hair. She fell into a short, fitful sleep and woke feeling more drained than before. The light on her nightstand still burned, and she struggled to a sitting position. She rubbed her bleary eyes until she could see. They were sore and puffy and in need of a cool washcloth. She reached for the book to move it so she could rise.

She screamed.

Springing from the depths of the margins were tendrils of thyme, growing longer and thicker by the second. They reached for her. She tried to back away but could not move, not even a hand to grasp her phone and call for help. They snaked up her arms and around her torso and tugged at her, pulling her close. She screamed again, unable to struggle, as the book expanded and grew until it was bigger than she was.

Bedran’s face flashed before her eyes as the pages themselves wrapped around her. He had been telling the truth and she hadn’t listened to him. He had warned her about the book, and she’d dismissed him out of hand. Now it was too late. Darkness—or was it death?—enfolded her like a lover as the book closed upon her so tightly she could no longer scream.

*****

Kaileigh opened her eyes to find silk draped and canopied above her. How very strange. Her apartment looked nothing like—a sudden disorientation washed over her, until—

“Of course,” she murmured. She was home at the palace, in her own bed. She pressed her fingers to her temples. She’d had the oddest dream—at least, she thought it was a dream—where she lived in a strange, foreign city, one that housed more people than in all the waking world and sparkled brighter than the jewels in her father’s crown. It had beautiful poetry, but she’d been walking among the people like a commoner, with a name as strange as her surroundings.

But she lay in her bed, so it must have been a dream. Was it? She felt as though she had been this other person, this Kaileigh. So real was her experience that even now, awake, she could taste the food she had eaten there. And there had been an old man with kind blue eyes and a peculiar book that came alive, an important book, one she must remember—

A whinny from the courtyard below drew her thoughts aside and she sprang from bed and hurried to the open casement on the other side of her bedchamber, her silk gown swirling about her feet. She could not contain a smile as she watched Aurus dismount from his charger. The dream lingered, but she would think about it later, for what were such dreams when she had her love by her side? Why would she ever want to be someone else? To dream of somewhere else? She was Galwyn, daughter of King Ethorn, beloved of Prince Aurus. What else in all the world, waking or sleeping, could compare to that?

Dreams were deceptive, but Aurus’ love—she would never doubt that. Never.

*****

Shuffling, Bedran pushed a book cart down the fourth row of shelves, pausing every few steps to tidy the books, or return one to its proper place. Strange that the little library had chosen New York as its new home after spending two months in the French countryside. Not that he minded—he liked entertaining visitors. But the old magician who had built the library must have been more than a little mad to have made it itinerant. And then to have left that ensorcelled book for anyone to find—well, it would not have been the way he would have arranged things. But this was not his library, and if he wanted it to continue existing, he couldn’t change things. He did warn the patrons, though, the ones drawn to that book. It seemed only fair, after all.

Thinking of the book drew his gaze to its place on the shelf, empty since Kaileigh had claimed it.

Empty no more. The book had returned.Bedran closed his eyes and, with a sigh, softly shook his head. It was not the first time someone had failed to heed his warning, but she was an especially nice girl. He’d been looking forward to hearing about her tale. Hopefully, it had been a happy one and she was enjoying her new life.

He straightened the book and continued down the row. Perhaps he’d receive a new visitor today.

---

J. L. Rowan dwells where her imagination takes her.  The author of several short stories (and a two-volume fantasy epic that will hopefully be released this decade), she has her MLS with a special study focus on rare books and illuminated manuscripts.  When not writing, she enjoys practicing illumination and cooking authentic medieval food.