THE BOOK DOCTOR'S APPRENTICE

            Bash rubbed the sleep from his eyes and tumbled out of bed, onto the cold plank floor, searching for his boots. His eyes weren’t even fully open but he could hear the screams and moans downstairs and knew the master would be sending for him soon. Winter crystals stuck to his one small paned window, and he cursed under his breath. Even though he wasn’t supposed to use words like that. Words were precious; he knew that. But he couldn’t help it sometimes.

            The master would be needing a fire, especially on a chilly day like this one. Bash found his boots and tugged them on, throwing a coat over his tattered pants and ink-stained shirt. He didn’t bother with tidying the bed or washing his face; he never did when an emergency was brought to them. Instead he bounded out his attic room, swinging the door open and stomping down the stairs. Bash went straight for the front room fireplace and lumped the kindling together. He glanced at the pile of books haphazardly stacked next to the stack of firewood and rolled his eyes. The master needed to stop reading so close to the fire. Bash kept telling him, one day he would accidentally use a book instead of a log and chuck it right in. Or he’d tear out a page, looking for something to use as kindling.

            And it would be very, very bad if he did that.

            “Where’s the binding paste for old Epic Age hardbacks, boy?” The master called from the workroom, already bent over his workbench with a magnifying glass in one hand.

            Bash abandoned the small fire, pushed the stack of books away for good measure, and ran into the next room where their supplies were kept. They tried to stock up every few months, but Bash liked to get twice what he knew they’d use because the master did tend to run out. And if that happened and an emergency came, then where would they be?

            He grabbed a new jar of the correct binding agent and slid it onto the master’s workbench, then circled back to his fire. It managed to build up a little and he grabbed a few logs to encourage it to keep going. But the master needed his own workroom to be warm, too, so Bash repeated the process in the small room on the other side of the house.

            The old man was already at work, pulling out his array of tools and snipping gingerly at the loose threads on the book’s spine. Bash could hear them crying with every snip, because it hurt. He knew his master heard them, too. But the book was in bad shape, and going to the doctor often meant a little bit of pain in exchange for a healthier person. Or, in this case, a healthier book.

            Bash never wanted to become a book doctor, mostly because they didn’t earn that much. But it was a prestigious vocation and he needed to do something. With four brothers above him, all the interesting careers in the family had been filled. A soldier, a lawyer, a surgeon, and an explorer. His mother suggested the apprenticeship a few years ago, and the master actually accepted. Bash heard he had turned down the last six requests for apprenticeship. And even though he was an odd, unhappy sort of man most of the time, Bash grew to like him. And the apprenticeship. But never the cries.

            “I see you,” The old man said as he snipped another thread carefully, setting his scissors down and pulling out a seam ripper.

            To anyone else, it would look like he was talking to himself. But as a book doctor-in-training, Bash knew he was talking to the characters. The doctor was aware of their pain, and was doing his best to work swiftly with deft fingers. Even though his eyes had started to fade and his fingers didn’t work as they once did, no one could deny the book doctor’s talent and skill. Especially Bash, who knew what it took to restore the soul of a lost book.

            He had only once seen a case where the book could not be saved. And he mourned that book, knowing something had been lost that would not ever be recovered. The story it held, in its truest and purest form, would be lost to the world. All the magic that was held in it had leaked out and was gone forever.

            He had stood in the doorway as the master worked tirelessly for three days straight, trying to revive it. The pages torn, the spine broken beyond repair, the very threads holding it together disintegrated. Even the words on the page were faded beyond any ability the doctor had. Despite his darkest ink and strongest threads, the book was too far gone. It had been battered and bruised, and Bash remembered how angry he’d felt. They should have brought the book in so much sooner.

            It was the only time in his five years as an apprentice that he cried.

            That had been a dark day. But the book on the master’s bench today, this was a book that had a life ahead of itself. The story would live on; there would be no death for it. Even so, he knew the book had been treated poorly and was experiencing pain.

            The rest of the village watched in wonder when the doctor took the poor, wretched books and gave them new life. No one else knew how to do what he did, and Bash suspected there were no other book doctors for quite a long distance. He had seen their front room filled with people who traveled hundreds of leagues to bring their decrepit books in.

            Some even found the books broken down and discarded and brought them in, though they didn’t even know where the book came from or whose it was. Though they weren’t permitted to even watch as he worked, stories of the book doctor’s incredible work spread further than Bash even knew. The mystery, the wonder, the awe—sometimes they tried to peek into the doctor’s supply room, to work out the secrets. It never worked, of course, because no one but a book doctor or apprentice would know what those supplies really held.

            Bash worked to keep the fires going and the master’s supplies ready for him, and welcomed in travelers and villagers that stopped by. Some, to pick up their restored masterpieces, and others, to beg the doctor to put their own books back together. These and more Bash handled, while the master worked at his craft in the other room.

            Their house was small; it only had a front room and workroom, with a supply “room” that was more like a closet, with one bedroom upstairs for the master and an attic bedroom for Bash. There was a small kitchen off the end of the workroom, but it was more used for mixing solvents and binders than cooking good meals.

            Yet, the doctor was a respected and revered member of their village. Everyone who came by was enthralled by the man. And day after day, when the people left their house, Bash helped his master set up and prepare and break open and stitch back together all of the books. He kept the fires going long into the dark hours, kept the front room and its hundreds of books stacked as they should be, whether separating them into piles or stacks or shelves.

            And in the evenings, when his master’s eyes were weak and he couldn’t continue to stitch the books back together, Bash took the needle and thread and picked up the work where the doctor stopped. He made the morning and evening meals, so when his master needed to eat, the meals would be ready. He did everything that needed doing, whether it was keeping their house in order or repairing the books.

            When he was younger, he watched as the doctor chose the right inks, the proper threads, carved out replacement backs and painted gold leafing back onto the covers. But Bash had learned the secrets of his master’s trade long ago, and his own skills were growing as he put them to whatever use he could.

            Occasionally, Bash would pick up a book that the doctor set aside for the evening and look it over. He examined the stitches, the bindings, the recovering progress and the pages’ delicacy. And more than a few times in recent months, Bash began to notice areas he could improve and give a better life to the book. So after the master had gone to sleep for the night, Bash began to improve the stitches and more carefully rebind the book and set things back where they were, so the doctor wouldn’t know when he came downstairs the next morning.

            Through all of it, they rarely talked. Early in Bash’s apprenticeship days, the book doctor talked him through all sorts of things. He told him how to use every tool, how to prepare every mixture, showed him the threads and how to make them glint with that bit of magic most people missed. How to tell what a book needs when it comes in. He taught him how to listen to the books, because they would tell you what they needed. But once Bash began to understand, his master stopped telling him things. He said the books would provide all the conversation they needed--and he was right. Bash turned to books and, as every good doctor should, read through each one he assisted in fixing.

            He became so well acquainted with books, he felt like they were friends. And each time he saw a friend brought in, ragged and dying, he wished only for its speedy recovery.

            Bash got to know the books, the way the house was run, the duties of a book doctor, all of it. And he picked it up so quickly that when he hit his third year in apprenticeship, he had figured it out. Almost all of it, even the things the doctor didn’t want him to know yet. The secrets of where the ink was made, how the thread shone if you looked at it just right. And so much more.

            He was busy in the midst of his daily duties when he noticed the sun peeking through one of the small front room windows, casting a golden shadow on the opposite wall. He stopped to take in the moment, something he’d started doing years ago. One moment, every day, that captured just a bit of magic in it. Bash drank it in, filling his lungs with a slow breath, then hurried back to the work room and cleaned up the leftover supplies discarded by the master. He always kept his head low, hurried when he could, and tried to stay out of the man’s way. And every spare moment he could, he stood at the master’s shoulder and watched. Learned. Soaked up as much as he could, because he knew one day he would be alone.

            Bash started on the dinner, and while he did, he finished flipping through a book he helped the master repair recently. The owner of the book hadn’t picked it up yet, because of the cold. Most people in the village didn’t go out in the cold, even for important tasks like book repairing.

            But he didn’t mind. He already read the book once, to make sure it was sturdy. Then he flipped through again, as was his tradition, to make sure he didn’t miss anything on his first time through. Satisfied with his—and the master’s—work, he set the book on the pile by the front door, full of books waiting to be picked up and taken back to their homes. He swept the floors, tidied the never-ending piles and haphazardly strewn books.

            They were everywhere, which was no surprise. Book doctors had their own collections of treasures, handed down from doctor to doctor over generations. The master was the seventh in the line of book doctors this village had seen, and Bash would one day be the eighth generation. He would add to the collection himself. Well, he already had. His master didn’t notice, and wouldn’t have minded even if he did. Books were grand things, and one was to pick them up wherever possible. At least, that’s how Bash saw it.

            And sometimes, though rare, books were abandoned after they came to the doctor’s house. They’d wait till the seasons turned and beards grew. Then, Bash claimed them for himself. He organized them on his own shelves in a corner in the front room, neatly placed so they knew they all held spots of honor. The Master’s books littered the house—they stood in his way on the stairs, lined each wall and spilled over what was once used as a desk. They were clumped by the fireplaces and sat under tables, and the master didn’t seem to notice. Bash wondered if it got worse since he arrived. Five years ago, was his master tidier? He thought the old man was showing his age, leaving the books forgotten, when it was his sole duty in life to remind them that they were not.

            It was one of the things Bash decided to change when he became the doctor. One day, he would have cases and shelves built to display every single book in the house, with room for additions. He would turn every wall into a bookshelf, and then at least they wouldn’t live on the ground. Even just from jumping out of bed on chilly mornings, Bash hated dealing with the icy floor like that. And even though the first floor of the house was warmer, he still didn’t like the idea of the dear books left alone in that way.

            Bash knew the day came to a close when his master pushed himself away from the workbench, stretched his hunched body, murmured something to himself, and walked up the dark staircase towards the cold second floor. Bash stayed behind, cleaning up the workspace and using the dim leftover candlelight to check the doctor’s stitches. Some needed to be a little neater, so Bash attended to those. He stoked the fires a few times, mended a few smaller book projects, and finally found himself starting up to his own attic. The warmth from the day had faded, and he could feel the temperature drop with every step.

            The only noise that followed him was the squeak of a few stairs, which he reminded him that he needed to fix them. The book doctor had many duties, but Bash realized there was more that needed to be done around their house. He’d learned from the detailed repair of all their books that anything which is neglected will eventually fall into disarray. And he realized years ago that the good doctor let his house fall into that state without even a thought of it. So Bash kept mental notes of what needed to be fixed, and completed the tasks while the doctor was sleeping. If the repairs required too much noise, he waited for a time when the doctor left to relieve himself in the outhouse, and rushed to do them.

            The stairs would keep, so Bash dragged himself to his attic and sat down on the bed, kicked off his boots, and slid underneath the covers. He pulled the blankets to his chin and sighed, letting the tension of the day melt away as he closed his eyes. The hind howled across the roof and he listened to its lullaby as he let sleep claim him.

            The grey morning swept in quickly, interrupting whatever dream Bash had—he couldn’t remember. There were no screams, no cries echoing from downstairs, and he couldn’t tell what time it was. But he liked the mornings he woke up to silence, they gave him more time to get ready and wake up the house. It meant the books were feeling better. It also meant he didn’t have customers waiting downstairs. He sat up and stretched, giving himself time to shake the sleep off his back. His feet touched the cold planks and he shivered, grabbing an extra thick pair of socks. It was bound to be a cold day. And he had to make quick work with the fires to make things comfortable and ensure the books didn’t suffer from the temperature drop.

            He made up the first fire and swept the worn rug in the front room, making a mental note of a few loose strands that needed to be sewn back together. That’s something I can do while I eat lunch, he nodded to himself. Bash moved to the fireplace in the workshop, and smiled to himself. He was up before the doctor, and took a moment to admire his hard work and the satisfaction of a clean room. He started the second fire, and moved into the kitchen to prepare the morning meal. It wasn’t every day he woke up before the doctor; he enjoyed the house being his for a few moments.

            Bash passed back through the workroom, listening to whispers as the books told their stories, and smiled.

            But when he finished his breakfast and his master hadn’t come down, he recognized how odd the house felt. Bash paused at the base of the stairs, looking up at the dark floor above. The wind had stilled from the night, and nothing in the house spoke except for the crackling fires and whispering pages. Bash felt the blood leave his face. He took a step onto the first stair and stopped, but didn’t exactly know why. He just felt the world changing and paused to note it. Then he inhaled and continued on.

            There was no need to call for his master, because the old man never replied when he called anyway. But when Bash opened the door to the bedroom, he realized his master couldn’t reply even if he wished to. Bash stood in the doorway for a few moments, and couldn’t find the way to let out the breath in his throat. Once he got himself to move, he closed the door and went back downstairs.

            The message was written swiftly and he opened the door, letting a cold wind push its way into his home, looking for one of the young message runners. He found one and paid the lad a penny, watched him take off, then shut the door against the chill. But the winter air had done its job. He was frozen to the core. Bash swallowed and released a breath. He sank into the oversized chair at the desk in the front room, in front of all those papers that needed to be filled out and filed for customers. All the things he had to do, suddenly looming over him like a thick black fog that crept its way down the stairs and filled the entire house.

            When the front door opened, he hardly noticed. The stout woman repeated herself, and Bash looked up. He hadn’t been listening, or paying attention to anything. He didn’t even know how much time had passed just sitting there. But he had a job to do, so he took the book in his hand and looked it over. He wrote her the diagnosis and sent her off with a receipt, still sitting in the chair and holding the book.

            Time passed again without his knowledge.

            Another customer walked into the front room, and this time he was ready to acknowledge him. Bash stood, setting down the book in his hand and picking up the forms he filled out for every newcomer.

            “I’ve come to see the book doctor?” The man asked, looking around the room.

            Bash inhaled. “That would be me.”