The Library and the Lion

By K. Leslie

Callin’s undergraduate life at Oxford University is full of study, exams, clubs, competitions, and boy-troubles. But a dark secret within her college is about to change her world. When she realises she must stop an injustice, she no longer knows who to trust - yet there are allies in unexpected places. Standing up for what is right will test her courage, loyalties, and friendships. That’s a lot to handle when exams are looming, and there’s a lion involved...

A light fantasy tale of adventure, danger, and a hint of romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. Leslie
• Release date: Mar 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311348265

K. Leslie

Hi, I'm a writer and an actress - although I made my start in science. I love to write, create, and imagine. I love to sing, play piano, and dance, whether I'm good at it or not. I have a degree in zoology, and a diploma in dramatic arts (those two go together, right?). Happy reading and writing everyone!

Book preview

The Library and the Lion

By K. Leslie

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 by Kiersten S. Leslie

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced in any form or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author.

Cover design copyright 2014 by Michelle Quinn, Au.D.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

The Library and the Lion

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

In a city named Oxford, down a little street near the centre of town, there is a red wooden door. Above and to the left of the door, carved out of the smooth brown stone which can be seen everywhere in the city, is the head of a lion. He is a handsomely carved brute, with piercing eyes and a rippling mane, and two half-oval ears peeking out from the folds of stone.

I know all this, because I am he, and he is me.

I am going to tell you a story. Stories seldom have a true beginning or end - they have points at which we may conveniently dip in or out of their continuing flow. I would say that this story began in stone, but that would be unfair to Callin, and I have a deep respect for her. And while it is true that events were in motion a long time before she met me, this tale should be, really, about her.

Callin first met me on a cold and dismal night. The air temperature had fallen early in the afternoon, until it hovered nervously just above freezing. As dusk stretched hazy fingers through the lanes and byways of the city, the streets emptied. Then it began to rain. Although the wardens had been out to light the street lamps, there was little comfort to be had from their meagre glow. Dark-clad and huddled, people hurried home out of the damp and gloom, and the sound of Oxford colleges closing their great wooden doors against the night echoed against the walls of the streets.

It was the kind of night that nothing would venture into voluntarily. Even the city’s nocturnal population should have been hidden in their dens, in the crevices and crannies of the colleges, peering into the darkness with their little yellow eyes; hunting would be miserable and unfruitful. But hungry creatures will risk wet and cold when they are desperate.

People call them ‘pigeons of the night’; but I happen to like pigeons - although they do poo on my head occasionally. Scrampies I had no opinion of, until Callin talked to me of her terror that night. Now I consider them unworthy of the title ‘pigeon’. The scrampies of Oxford are small dog-like creatures that feed on blood. They infest stone buildings, living in spaces left by cracks and poor masonry. Fortunately for the people of the city, scrampies hate any kind of light; they emerge only at night, and stay within the shadows. Yet they are a plentiful nuisance.

One scrampy, or two together, might have the nerve to nip at someone’s legs before being kicked away. But on rare occasions they will hunt in a pack - perhaps when resources are scarce, or if the wardens have had a clearing-out and closed up what holes they can find. A pack of scrampies is no laughing matter.

On that night, the splashing sound of many running paws was lost amidst the pouring rain. Callin didn’t need to hear them to know they were there. Her clothes and shoes were soaked through, but that was the least of her concerns. Her breathing was ragged, and every time she gasped, the air hit the back of her throat like a sharp icicle. All around, the slick black walls of the colleges seemed impenetrable; she could discern no doors, no windows, no light - the dim street lamps that loomed and disappeared offered no protection.

Desperately, Callin wheeled around the corner of a lane. At first all ahead appeared dark, but as she hurtled onwards, she suddenly saw a small ball of light. It was a lamp, floating above a door, and she veered toward it. Pushing her back into the doorframe, she looked up and down the street. There was nothing but darkness and falling water. There seemed to be nowhere to run, and the light above her head was pitifully inadequate. Quickly, Callin checked the pockets of her coat. Of course she had no weapons – she hadn’t put on her coat that afternoon with plans to hold off a pack of blood-thirsty scrampies. She found a handkerchief and a ruler. It was not going to save her, but it was all she had. As she drew out the ruler, a nick in the wood caught the edge of her coat pocket, and the flimsy instrument snapped in half. Time seemed to slow as she watched the broken half-ruler flicker away. She didn’t hear a splash, but she imagined a thud of doom. She looked up at the lamp – perhaps it could offer some protection? It was desperately dim. At the edge of the umbra, she noticed the handsome face of a carved lion. One of the lion’s eyes opened slowly, and surveyed her.

The door is unlocked. Open it said the lion. His voice was deep, and authoritative. The eye closed again.

Callin wiped the water from her eyes and stared up at the lion. Had the statue really understood what was happening? That was not possible. But she paused only for a moment. She whipped around and flung her weight against the door, yanking at the handle.

The door swung inwards, flooding the street outside with a warm glow. Callin fell inside, stumbling down onto a pile of sacks. She lay there in the light for a moment; safe. Tears of relief welled onto her cheeks as she shuddered uncontrollably.

After a minute or two she pushed herself up. The wooden door stood open and a pool of water was gathering on the threshold. She thought she could hear the shrill whines of the scrampies, but it was difficult to tell with the thundering rain. Still breathing hard, she threw the door closed, and collapsed against it.

A baker’s assistant, working late, found her in the bakery’s back storeroom. Armed with a strong carriage lamp and an umbrella, he and his sister- the baker’s wife - escorted Callin home.

The storm passed in the night, and the temperature dived low. Early in a pearly dawn, the street keepers emerged in their grey cloaks, like spectres, to spread coagulant and shut the storm drains. The metallic clanging, destined to awake and excite many young children, rang across the city. That sound was the happy herald of an Ice Day. With the storm drains closed, excess water on the roads froze solid, creating a transport system that avoided the danger of slipping on ice, by embracing it. That morning, all the roads in the city centre became sparkling frozen pathways, and the eager children of Oxford strapped on their skates for the daily exodus to school.

By the time Callin was out of bed, the clouds had completely gone, leaving a clear sky and weak sun. Out on the road, now a glistening thoroughfare, laughing children were darting amongst the students, teachers, and grumbling merchants.

Callin too put on her skates; they were wooden slatted clogs, with strips of leather that she tied tightly around her fur-lined boots. She grabbed her satchel and her violin case, then rattled down the rickety staircase in the entrance hall, and into the frozen morning, gliding out onto the road to join the throng of rugged-up commuters. It was the first day of a new semester and Callin, first-year student at the University of Oxford, was running late for a tutorial at Haymarch College.

The great behemoth that is Oxford University is composed of both colleges, and departments. These are housed in numerous buildings that are scattered about the city, so that the University is irreversibly grafted into the fabric of Oxford: the city is the University, and the University is the city.

The departments hold lectures and workshops and laboratories. For example: the Geology Department is a prestigious institution located on Didcot Street, where the students of that intriguing science are taught by the luminaries of the country in a room that could seat 200 people. In the same building are laboratories where the students learn the practical application of geological and chemical theory.

The colleges, by comparison, take care of the pastoral needs of the students. They provide accommodation, food, clubs, and tutorials that link with the departmental lectures. Every student at the University belongs to both a department, and a college. Each college is unique – in reputation, history, the subjects that they promote, and in their layout and design. In most cases, the main college buildings are not large enough to accommodate all of the students, so the majority of colleges own additional buildings around the city for that purpose.

Callin belonged to Haymarch College, and lived not far away in Bramley Hall - one of the college’s annexes for first-year students. Of all the colleges in Oxford, Haymarch is nearly the smallest. It is known among its peers for its immaculate squares of ‘do-not-walk-on-the’ grass, and is a prolific producer of talented music graduates. The college itself is built of smooth strong granite, sourced from the quarries to the east of the city. The three neighbouring colleges, Ridgewell, Liffey, and Oldgate, also use granite in their construction, but are of a slightly different grain.

I’m interrupting here – I hope you’ll excuse the intrusion. I’m supposed to be just writing the story as ‘Tino dictated it, but I feel completely justified in doing some editing; he’s already said this is a story about me, after all. And he insists on using this third person perspective which makes it sound like he knows exactly what happened from everyone’s point of view, including mine. I’d like to make it clear that he’s got his information from his own observations and surmises, as well as from me and a few others. Anyway, I’ve trimmed his account of the types of stone that every college in Oxford is built from - it would have filled about three pages.

- Callin

P.S. So long as I’m commenting, I’d also like to add that the florid use of language is ‘Tino’s – I’m just writing what he says. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but I’d like readers to know that it’s not my fault. It’s not how I speak or write.

That morning marked the beginning of the final semester of the academic year. Exams and assignment loomed, as did the more exciting prospects of college balls and sports competitions. It was a season of both work and leisure, imbued with the magic of gradually warming temperatures and lengthening daylight.

Broad Street, sparkling with ice and morning sun, was at its bustling busiest. It was a scene of movement and vitality, with street vendors and store holders competing with the varied statuary for attention. The moving statues had the advantage of superior positioning. Had a pigeon flown from one end of the street to the other, it would hardly have encountered less movement and noise than a skater on the ground. The granite half-men of the Geography Department tower, on the corner with Chishurst Street, were singing in four-part harmony and attempting to charm the passing ladies. Under every gable, gargoyles hissed and growled congenially. As Callin skated past the old Museum of Science, she barely noticed the incessant chatter of the stone philosophers, arguing about the origins of emotion.

She arrived a few minutes later, out of breath, at the entrance of Haymarch College. The great doors were open, and she untied her skates and hurried inside, ignoring the hares leaping and bounding through the carved frieze above the arch. The college’s main quadrangle was a scene of glittering white. Frost covered the square island of grass in the centre, and glinted on the vines that ran up the surrounding walls. The gate porter tapped his chronometer meaningfully as Callin hurried through the lodge. The eastern arch was blocked by the Haymarch College Rowing Club’s final semester recruitment drive, so, dashing past the knot of students, Callin made her way through a short passage leading into the northern quad - also bestowed with a square of immaculate grass. She passed through an old wooden door and down a long hallway, lined with books on either side, that led eventually to the library courtyard, and from there she entered the smallest quad in the college. She paused outside Professor Rummage’s tutoring rooms to bump the ice and water from her boots. A statue of a rampant alligator, humming a tune beside the door, was victim to the flying debris.

Callin knocked briefly before opening the door, then slipped inside and closed it behind her.

You’re late the elderly gentleman stated.

Sorry professor.

Rummage sat in his favourite armchair by the fireplace. A man of indeterminate age, and respectable decrepitude, he was assumed by all to be a master musician. He could certainly drum his fingers in time with a tune. And he owned a remarkable collection of musical instruments, with pride of place awarded to an authentic Salvatore violin. The polished instrument was displayed on the mantelpiece, where all of his students and visitors could admire it.

Callin hurriedly removed her own violin from its case, and set up a music stand.

Hi Callin.

Hi Simon she replied, without looking up.

Callin was a student of zoology. She had signed up for one single paper in music, in order to gain the credits required to pass her first year of study. Simon, student of literature, had signed up for one single paper in music for obvious reasons - and it had little to do with music.

Do you want to try the ‘Winter’s Breath’ piece this morning? asked Simon.

Sure Callin replied, and pulled a thin book of music from her satchel. She placed it on the stand, tightened the strings of her bow, and waited for Simon to begin the duet.

It was over in five minutes.

Callin, that was terrible Rummage exclaimed.

I know she replied with a sigh. She was never offended by the professor’s blunt remarks - she knew they weren’t personal attacks. Rummage was known to be a man of honesty coupled with frankness. He meant no harm at all, and because all of his students, and colleagues, knew this, Callin paid no mind.

But more terrible than usual! the professor continued. I keep telling you: if you practiced, you could be a good violinist. But today was awful. Something has upset you, I can tell.

There was a pause. Yes, I’m a bit out of sorts.

Well if you want to improve, you had better fix it. What’s troubling you? Is it related to a young man?

No.

A small sigh of relief escaped from Simon’s lips, and he looked quickly from Callin to the professor to confirm neither had heard it.

Well? prompted the professor.

I got attacked by scrampies - late last night. She couldn’t help shuddering.

Are you alright? asked Simon.

Really? Rummage was aghast. Have you told the wardens?

No. Not yet.

Well you had better - without delay! We can’t have attacks on the students. Weren’t you with anyone?

"No, I was