Chamomile is certainly the most practical way of relaxing oneself, when faced with a situation of relative stress. With a cup of chamomile tea, you are guaranteed to reduce your anxiety by at least half. How appropriate it is, then, as this particular brew was just the one I was currently indulging in as Lydia Finn seated herself most abruptly beside me on the porch swing; putting a perfectly cheerful morning into the clouds. I purse my lips at her appearance, but it is in my manners not to show too much displeasure at my childhood playmate's sociability.

"Morning, Berty," she says.

"Morning, Lydia," I reply, not pleased with the feminine nickname.

In the way she has always done, she makes a light humming sound after I say her name. If you ask me to explain to you why she does this, I would surely be of no help, as I have yet to figure it out myself. What I could tell you, of course, is that after she hums she will go on to first compliment my appearance (I have figured that this is so I will compliment her in reply), and then she will make a comment about the day before.

"You look very sharp today, Berty." She tells me, her pale grey eyes alight with all her whimsey and mischief. I stay clear of those eyes, and instead gaze down at my cup of tea. "And you are majestic as always," I answer. She appreciates flamboyant flattery, so most often I answer her with such.

Though I don't look, I know that she smiles at the comment.

"You know, Berty, I was in my garden yesterday, and there in my daffodils was the absolute largest Garden Gnome I have ever seen!"

I know she is watching me now, but I ignore this. "Really?" I say with just the right amount of disinterest, so that she wouldn't notice. I have decided that the wildflowers in the hanging pot beside her head are much more interesting than the tea, and so I continue to avoid her glance.

"Really!" She exclaims. "It absolutely terrified me when I first saw it! The thing was nibbling off all the pedals; it was awfully rude."

I nodded in reply, and she continues. "Well, it just so happened, that Jonas stopped by to see me at the moment that I had discovered the Gnome, so I called him over to get rid of it."

At the mention of Jonas, I mentally cringe; this is how all Lydia's conversations would turn out. Jonas Mallane was, as it was known, Lydia's fiancé. As far as she has told me, the two of them are madly in love and destined to grow old together. Yet still, as far as she has told me, (or rather the only things she seems to tell me these days) is that the man is impossible and filled with too many flaws to count. Every time she comes to me, she comes to complain about something that Jonas has done to annoy her, and never has there been a time so far that she has stopped by without a single mention of the man.

I grudgingly sip my tea as I wait for her to insult her beloved, and she does accordingly.

"But, you won't believe it Berty; Jonas refused to go near the Gnome! I told him, I said 'if we just let it roam free, my garden will be destroyed!', but won't you know what he said? He said that I should just do it! He said he was scared silly of the things and wouldn't get near them for the life of him! Can you believe him?"

"Hm," I reply, silently agreeing with Jonas that Garden Gnomes were troublesome things.

Lydia lets out a huff! and crosses her arms. "Well, what if it was my life on the line, then? Would he just leave me to die because he was too afraid of a little old Garden Gnome?"

"Hm," I reply again. I know she is watching me, but I reserve myself to looking at a glistening beetle crawl across the porch. After a second of silence, Lydia continues with her long list of things that Jonas has done wrong.

You may now be wondering for the reason why I refrain from making eye contact. I have two reasons for that. The first reason, is on account of Lydia's ability to ramble on. If I were to engage in her troubles, as I have done in the past, then I have no doubt that we would remain on this porch until sundown.

The second reason, is one I'd rather keep to myself if I had the choice. Ballantyne's Hollow is such a little community, so reputations stick like honey on a bears paws. I am, as all of this Hollow knows me, a man with no interest in women. There are numerous aunts with daughters to introduce to me, and those same aunts, in their failure to convince me to marry, have concluded that I am not taken by the female kind. It is wrong, I think, to assume that I have never fancied a girl before. Though it has been hard to admit, I have long fancied one girl in particular.

Of course, I am not bold and nor am I brave. If it is something I cannot have, then that is that.

After an hour or so, Lydia left me to myself, and I felt the peace of the day once again. Chamomile is certainly the most practical way of relaxing ones self, when faced with a situation of relative stress, but to read in silence is by far the better antidote.

I get up and enter my house. It is an old house; nearly as old as the Hollow is. It is also, strangely enough, a very short house. Ever since I reached my full hight, the bumps on my forehead have also grown. That is a little matter, of course, and I wouldn't trade my house if the king appeared with a bucket of gold. It is my treasure, and my lovely library is it's shiniest gem.

As I walk down the steps to the library, a faint waft of thyme meets my nose. It calms me, and the edge that was building up from Lydia's visit quickly smooths away. To you, it may seem strange that a library smell like thyme, but it's commonplace to me. It is for the Willow Sprites, see. Willow Sprites have an appetite for knowledge, and are well known for nibbling on the pages of books. Since the scent of thyme frustrates the Sprites, they stay away, so that is why it is important to hang thyme throughout any library.

I take a book titled Toads and their Fathers (truly a pleasant read, I would definitely recommend it to you)and sit myself down on the one and only chair, and I wash away in a lull of pure bliss.

It is my little world in this library that is my escape. I have always been a lover of seclusion, since I was a boy. Perhaps being raised in the quiet company of my Grandfather is partly the cause. He taught me the wonders of a single page; the magic in every written word. Through him I've discovered too many splendours to count. He was, in a sense, my hero, and the closest to a father as well. It has been quite empty, as of late. His death has left a space in this house; one which could never be filled. I have found myself retreating to the library more and more. Perhaps because it is where I feel closest to him, or perhaps because it's a place where I can forget.

+ + + + + + + + + + +

There is a grand banging from somewhere in the house that jolts me awake. It is strange, because I don't recall falling asleep, but when I open my eyes I see that it is well into the evening. In a bit of an odd state, I find my way up the stairs to investigate the noise.

Maybe because I am drowsy; it doesn't really occur to me that hearing such a large sound in my house would be a very unnatural thing. I have no pets, no relatives, and no sense of untidiness. This house is also quite fairy-proof, as my Grandfather had always bragged about. It had to do with the Stone family's history, which I will spare you the details to. I will just say that us Stones are quite good at warding away the fairy-folk.

I make my way to the entry-way, and find that my mahogany side-cabinet is most certainly not in the same place it was before. It's been moved slightly away from the wall, and the vase that was once placed atop it is now broken in pieces underneath it. It's a shame, that vase was a priceless heirloom. I carefully pick up the pieces and place them back on the cabinet.

I dust my hands off on my pant legs, then notice muddy footprints trailing out from the door. They are most definitely a human's tracks, and barefoot at that. Really, they are awfully rude to not even clean their feet off before entering another persons house.

I follow the trail through the parlour, and then the kitchen. It isn't 'till I follow it in and out of the bathroom that a loud racket starts to arise from the library. I would have to say, that in the same way a mother rushes to her baby with any sign of danger, I rush to my beloved library.

"If they touch one book..." I mutter.

I stomp down the stairs and my eyes have to temporarily adjust to the dark. Ah, I should have brought a candle down.

"Whoever's down here, come on out." I say, trying to seem even a bit intimidating.

As my eyes finally adjust, I see that my library in the worse state that it has ever been. It's appalling; there are books scattered everywhere, pages bent and stepped on, and whole shelf has been tipped over.

I take a deep breath, but I can feel my hands shaking. "I said, come on out and explain yourself!"

There is a creek of the floorboards at the far end of the room, and I quickly creep toward it. My chest feels as if it's on fire. I can feel my blood boiling, yet I'm trapped in a cold sweat. I don't believe I've been this furious my entire life⎯ "Oof!"

I am all to suddenly clobbered by a dark mass, that knocks me to the floor. My head takes the brute of the impact. All I can hear is a deafening ringing, and then a far off voice. As I finally come to, I feel cold metal against my neck. I look up to see what appears to be a young boy with a crown of feathers on his head and bright red cloak draping from his back.

In a surprisingly youthful voice, he yells, "Don't kill me! Please don't kill me, okay?"

"The way it is now, I'm the one that should be pleading for my life, don't you think?" I cough.

He considers this, but doesn't remove the blade. "I'll only get off you if you promise not to kill me... or brutally injure me. You got that?"

What a peculiar kid. I have to say, that I am slightly entertained regardless of the dangerous situation.

"Alright," I say.

"You promise?" He asks.

"Yes, I promise."

He continues to eye me suspiciously, but still sheaths the blade, then he leans back as if to get comfortable.

I stare up at him. "Aren't you going to get off?" I ask.

"I'd rather not," he answers, "since I have some serious business with you."

"Do you really? I don't recall having any business with anyone." I say.

The boy lets out a childish laugh that rings bright and clear. I think I have overestimated his age; from my first impression I would say the lad was fourteen, but his voice is so young that I'd think him more as twelve now.

"Of course I have business with you! That is why I've come here!"

"Ah," I say, "is that why you've destroyed my most important possession?"

The boy looks slyly down at me, with not even a hint of guilt. "So you have never had a girl, then?"

I'm taken back by such a comment, from someone so young, and I feel my cheeks heating slightly. He goes on to say, "Or is it that your girl has to compete for you against these books?"

I try to get up, but he pins me down by the arms with impressive strength. A playfulness gleams in his eyes; one very similar to Lydia's when we were young.

"Regardless, you have destroyed my library, and I am very angry about that." I tell him, though he seems to have no conscience at all. His lips curl into a knowing smile. "But you have promised not to hurt me, remember?"

I clench my teeth; this boy is getting on my nerves, and though I have long practiced patience when dealing with Lydia, I am not yet accustomed to children. I quickly pull my weight around to knock him over, then catch him by both sides of his cloak before he hits the floor. "There," I tell him, "I haven't hurt you. Now sit right down and explain to me what your business is and why you've broken into my house and trashed my library."

He gives me a defiant look, but he listens and sits down. "I did't break in," he pouts, "the door was open."

I give the slightest sigh of frustration, then allow myself to calm down. "First of all, what is your name?" I ask.

"Big Bumby of the Boobies." He says while looking to the side. I raise an eyebrow and wait for another answer.

"... Tarragon." He says finally.

"Tarragon? Like the herb?"

He growls and folds his arms. "No, Tarragon like the name, okay?"

I can't help but smile a little; he is obviously sensitive about his parent's creativity.

"So then, what's your name?" He grumbles, giving me a nasty look. I'd have thought he would have known given that he has business with me.

"It is Lambert Stone," I tell him, "and now what was it you wanted of me?"

He takes a while to think, (perhaps he is trying to find a way to insult my name) until finally he says, "I have come here to get a book from you."

I blink a few times; for some reason the comment seems surprising. "That's all?" I ask, "You just want to borrow one of my books?"

Tarragon straightens his feather crown and sits back like a noble lord. "Yes, I guess thats it. I want to borrow a book, and I want to borrow you as well."

+ + + + + +

Hey everyone! This is my first book, and I'm excited to get into it. My name is Marcellus (weird, I know), and I'd be thrilled to know what you think of the story so far, both good and bad! If you comment or vote, I will seriously be ecstatic!

The next chapter should be out soon, so until then!

~Marcellus A. Grey