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‘We need you to get some Leprechaun gold George,’ Molly stated, as a matter of fact.

George sat there open mouthed.

‘Some what?’ he replied.

‘Leprechaun gold – that’s why you have the Myths and Legends survival guide,’ said Molly.

‘But why? Do you think we’ll need some kind of ransom for my parents?’

George was now finding it hard to take all this in.

‘No,’ said Molly, shaking her head. ‘Let me explain. When you go back to see the Captain and Lady Jane they won’t know who you are, right’

‘Yes, you explained that, but where does the Leprechaun gold come into it?’

‘I was coming to that,’ Molly protested.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said George.

‘Well, the first owner of Arrington hall, the man who had the house built and hid the scroll, realised the potential of the library, in being able to come back in time and visit past ancestors, like him for instance.’

‘Okay.’ George wasn’t convinced.

Molly rolled her eyes into the back of her head.

‘He also realised the importance of the three scrolls and that one day it was bound to happen, but he couldn’t risk just anybody hearing about it and then turning up and claiming to be a long lost relative or a future one for that matter. He figured he would have to come up with a secret code or something so they could be sure who it was.’

‘So when I go back into their history,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘they will know who I am and help me if I give them some of the Leprechaun gold.’

‘Yes, by George, he’s got it, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ She exclaimed. ‘A simple piece of normal gold was not enough. He had to make it something rare and very hard to get hold of.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ George said, nervously.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Molly, ‘the survival guide you have there was compiled by the same man, after extensive research. It’s the only one to have ever been published. Your parents must have taken it from the library to hide it in your trunk.’

‘But wouldn’t you have noticed them doing this?’ George asked.

‘Look, just because I’m a member of the undead, it doesn’t mean I don’t like to have a rest or a snooze now and again,’ She protested. ‘ It can get boring in here sometimes, especially when no-one visits for years on end, and as for that lot, well, they never stop sleeping – and snoring, loudly,’ she added, with consternation, glancing at the old paintings on the wall, with the ink figures fidgeting restlessly within their frames..

‘It all sounds a bit long winded,’ George moaned, ‘Couldn’t he have just invented a secret handshake or something?’

‘No, that would have been too easily tortured out of someone. This way was safer.’

George gulped.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ he said. ‘If it’s so hard to do, why isn’t Uncle Felix doing it, instead of me?’

Molly could see the point George was making, but she also understood what his Uncle’s reasoning might have been.

‘Maybe your Uncle thought it was time for you to know about the family’s legacy,’ she suggested, ‘or that you had come of age, what with everything that’s happened recently in your life.’

Molly hesitated for a moment, and then decided that George needed to know the full story.

‘Also,’ she said, ‘your uncle hasn’t been in the library since before you were born.’

George was taken aback. His Uncle had been only too eager to point him in the direction of the library that morning. What could have possibly happened to make him not want to go back in? George shrugged his shoulders. Maybe instead of explaining everything to him, and have George believe he was a mad old fool, his Uncle had reckoned it would be better for him to discover the library for himself.

‘So why won’t he come back in here then?’ George said.

‘Well,’ Molly hesitated, ’it’s because of something that happened in a book he was visiting.

She sat, or rather hovered, into the chair opposite George and bowed her head.

‘He fell in love,’ she murmured.

‘Really,’ George shouted, smiling. ‘Good for him – but I don’t understand, why is that such a bad thing?’

‘Because it could never last, it was doomed from the start,’ Molly cried. 'The story cannot continue beyond a certain point and characters cannot be taken out of the books, only the odd prop that is not central to the main storyline, like some of the things you see in this house, or the silver keys for example.’

‘Oh,’ George said, simply.

It was obvious from the forlorn look on everyone’s faces, and of Molly’s especially, that this had been a very upsetting time when it had happened, all those years ago. His Uncle had obviously been much loved and was now severely missed.

‘So….what happened,’ he stammered, ‘I mean what book did it happen in?’

Molly looked up, her ghostly eyes red around the edges.

‘Have you heard of a book called 1001 Arabian nights,’ she said.

‘Er….vaguely.’

’Well, basically, the story is based around the tale of a princess who is due to be executed the following day by her husband the King, but each night she tells him a story, leaving it at a crucial moment to be continued the following evening.

‘Eager to know how the story continues he gives her a stay of execution, so that he can find out what happened next. Well she managed to continue this for 1001 nights.’

George listened intently, while Molly continued.

‘Well, your Uncle Felix went into the book and fell in love with the princess. Believing that her time was running out and that she really would be executed he came up with a daring plan to rescue her. But, it all went wrong I’m afraid…he headed back to the portal hand in hand with the princess, chased by axe wielding guards. Except the only problem was’, Molly sobbed, ‘is that upon reaching this side he was on his own, she couldn’t come through. It was only a fictional book so it also meant he couldn’t go back into it either.’

‘Blimey, he must’ve been devastated,’ George said.

‘Yes he was. You see even though she was only a made up character George,’ Molly added, ’to him it was all very real. He swore never to come back into the library, and since that day, he never has.’

*

George stood, staring at the closed up doorway, in anticipation. The patterned paper on the wall started to come together and swirl around into a whirlpool of colours, like a dancing rainbow. It was as if the library knew what George’s intentions were. The colours then began to stretch out into the distance and it was almost as if he could see what was on the other side, but rippled, like looking into a pool of water, gently wafted by the wind. He felt every nerve ending in his body jangling within him, and on the tips of his fingers, as he gripped the Myths and Legends book tightly in his right hand. He had never felt so nervous in all of his life. He had also never felt so alive.

‘So you know what to do,’ Molly repeated.

‘Yes, Molly,’ he shouted back, ‘you’ve told me enough times and I’ve got the book as well if I need to check anything.’

He took several deep breaths and counted to three in his head before declaring;

‘Okay, here goes,’ he yelled.

He ran as hard and fast as he could across the room and, with a loud whumph, disappeared into the portal.

Your very breath

A gale

My shredded sails

With fingernails

And a heart marooned

On a rock

Called Hope

The clickety-clack of the Trans-Siberia Railway was equally hypnotic and torturous. I woke up half-naked in my compartment, with a throbbing, two-day, drug-induced headache and a note taped inside my briefcase that read, “If I can do this, think of what the FSB and CIA are capable of.” My thoughts ran to self-preservation rather than the mind-numbing sounds.

So much of my odyssey had been a living combination of Monty Python meets Dr. Strangelove that I had almost forgotten I was dealing with superpowers, real people, and telling a secret that would change the world. I entertained the notion that if I could concentrate, the migraine would dissipate.

I reached for my backpack and pulled out my notes. I spread them on the bed and tried to make some sense of what I learned on my journey thus far. After sorting through them aimlessly for a while, I decided there had to be a system: put each prong of the story in one pile rather than trying to make a single, convoluted epic from four diverse groups who had no idea any of what the others were trying to do. The participants sounded like a bad joke. What if the Soviet Union, the US, a small European prince and an angelic African leader were all trying to save their countries at the same time?

The first portion of the story came from the data I had collected about the Russians-Soviets, as they were known at the time. I’d uncovered a lot of information about the inner-circle of the Kremlin. I read it and re-read it, unable to believe what I knew from experience was true. There was no way these megalomaniacal buffoons and paranoid apparatchiks could have run an empire that spanned major parts of three continents.

As was always the case, the worker bees were the competent ones, brave and able to work under pressure. Much of my information had come from former KGB operatives who had been involved all those years ago,

Damn, I kept thinking during the five-thousand-mile journey each way from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok, this can’t be true.

My piles of notes kept shifting with the movement of the train on antiquated tracks. I grumbled and stood, opening the door of my compartment to recapture the ones that slipped under the door.

A beautiful conductor bent over to help pick them up, and her skirt rode up to show spectacular legs. She smiled as she handed me the stack of papers. I struggled to remember my rudimentary Russian, finding her beauty distracting. “Are you writing a book?” she asked me with a brilliant smile.

Oh shit, had she read my notes? I swallowed against the sudden dryness in my throat. “No, I’m helping with some research for a university.”

“How interesting,” her eyes sparkled.

The train shimmied, and she fell into me. I wrapped an arm around her to steady her, or so I told myself. Her smile grew to almost feline proportions. Man, this was more of a test than any other I had thus far. I couldn’t cheat on my girlfriend. More importantly, no matter how cute she was, I couldn’t let this conductor see what I was doing. For all I knew, she could be FSB.

“Th-th-thanks. I need to get back to work,” I said, releasing her and clutching the notes to my chest.

“If I see your papers in the corridor again, I’ll knock on your door,” she smiled and walked away and into the next car.

I closed the door, sat on my small chair, and took a deep breath. Looking in the cabinet for water, I discovered only a bottle of vodka. I drank it straight from the bottle like a true Russian.

Fortified by the liquor, I returned to my review, starting on the next stack of notes: the scant of information referencing the United States. As I read through it, I couldn’t help but laugh. Doonesbury wasn’t a cartoon. It was a documentary.

I gagged on my next slug of cheap vodka. The idiots in charge of the United States were every bit as crazy as the Soviets.

I found that the American team left a land of Victoria’s Secret, Monday Night Football, and shopping malls for Russia, a country of perpetual gray skies, no hot water, and umbrella-wielding babushkas. The KGB was omnipresent, and the Americans could be shipped off to enjoy the Siberian winter if they were caught. Hell, if someone caught them, being sent to Siberia would have been downright lenient. I doubted any of the Americans would have made it to the next street corner. Stealing Soviet national secrets was understandable during the Cold War. But how could anyone have come up with this crazy plan?

I understood why the world’s superpowers were so frustrated and willing to try anything, but their plans weren’t what really ended the Cold War. In the geopolitical world, as in the real world, accidents often create the greatest results. I needed more vodka and sucked down a third of the bottle in one swig.

My notes blurred, and my head spun as I considered the two men central to my journey. The key players in this farce couldn’t be more different. No amount of vodka could possibly make this make any sense, but I had met them and knew all of this was real. Insane, wild, crazy, but real.

Of course, I had to change the names of countries other than America and the USSR. The names of the players had to change, also. For my own safety and the safety of everyone involved.

The next player in this mad story was President Mbangu of Madibu, who has often been considered a living saint. Hell, he’s known as The Great Man throughout the world. During a time when Africa suffered through brutal civil wars, dictatorships, corruption, and economic unrest, his idyllic island nation was poor and happy. He was a much better man than I ever could hope to be. However, his nation’s successes were waning and he had to come up with a way to turn Madibu’s fortunes quickly or chaos could ensue.

Although it was against his better angels, he tricked the U.S. and U.S.S.R., but no one lost, and his people benefitted greatly. How could he ever know that his beaches, hotels, a cargo/cruise ship port, rhesus monkeys and new-found libation production would help end the Cold War?

Mbangu’s friend, and polar opposite, was Prince Claude of Luxenstein. All anyone needed to know about him was his nickname: The Pied Piper of Pussy. As outrageous as it may sound, it was a gross understatement of his life. Casanova was a virgin compared to the Pied Piper, and the Pied Piper was real. He was a one-man good year for casinos around the world. But this time he had gone too far, he only had a short time to fix it or his fairytale nation would be gobbled up as a province of France or Belgium to protect the public from his excesses. His family’s five-century-old principality would be history. He couldn’t hold back. If he had to be dangerous and crazy, so be it. Who would take him seriously anyway? So, he jumped in full force, hoping he would succeed against all the odds.

The last notes I organized before putting them back in my briefcase for the evening were the perfect ending point for the night. They came from Petey, an eighty-five-year-old former pit boss in Vegas, who had seen the Pied Piper in his wildest days.

“You gotta promise me one thing,” Petey had told me.

“What’s that?”

“If you find out the real story before I die, you gotta tell me.”

“Absolutely.”

A huge smile lit his wrinkled, ancient face, “When you come to tell me, make sure I give you my will first.”

“Why?”

“Because when I hear what he did, I’ll probably laugh my ass into the big one. It’ll be a helluva way to go. Die with a smile on my face. Man, I haven’t been this excited since that hooker in ’83. You’ve made this old man very happy. I’ve got something to look forward to now. Thank the Pied Piper for me.”

“You’ve got it, Petey,” I said with a snicker.

Perfect. I let the vodka and clickety-clack of the train put me to sleep. I smiled to myself with that one last thought.

When your kid asks, “How did the Cold War really end, daddy?” You can tell him, “This is how. Don’t believe what you read in the history books. Sit back and read the real story.”

I am the mighty wall

you created

to shelter you

from Death climbing

baseboards of your existence.

My ears hearken to the words

of your lost soul.

Your scattered torso parts

are exposed

to my hungry naked eyes.

I hear and touch the drippings

of your notoriety, marching

in a formation of butchered

and shanghaied thoughts.

Your rancid flesh is spewed

by wails of debasement

as cruelty sticks

to my walls like Velcro.

You yell to my corners

but I can only rubberneck

as I unlock your filthy codes

with my listening key

and find your secrets.

A sodden liquor flows

from your reservoir,

adding to my burden,

shoring up

your angry thoughts.

You slice truth

like biscuits to my

gaping mouth,

anchored in my walls,

leading to your tomb

where I can no longer

H E A R   Y O U !

Trust.

Love.

Loyalty.

Things I sought from you

But you only gave them falsely.

False like spring's first warmth

That is soon re-swallowed

By winter's icy maw.

And it wasn't for my

Lack

Of

Trying.

I tried to make you hear,

But you ignored me.

I tried to make you see,

But you refused me.

I tried to make you feel,

But you betrayed me.

And now, my life is forfeit.

I lived for your smile,

The laughter that sent chills

Up

And

Down

My Spine.

I longed for your voice,

The sweet nothings that you would

Whisper

In my

Ear.

I ached for your touch,

The burn that would come from

Your

Hands

Pulling

Me Close.

But that is not to be.

You never cared.

I thought time would change you.

But look at what I learned:

I sought trust, I found lies.

I sought love, I found indifference.

I sought loyalty, I found treachery.

I tried to use time as an ally,

But learned that,

In your case,

It was the enemy.

And guess what?

Time is the only enemy

You

Can't

Beat.

War’s wounded

Famine’s flotsam

Ragged rejects

Lesser lives

Collecting crumbs

Scarcely survive.

Huddled, hopeless, humanity

Uncounted, unwanted, unloved

Forgetting freedom’s fantasy.