Norbert’s Marvellous Book Emporium #1

As Enola walked through the doorway, a gentle bell rang overhead. The scent of aged paper filled the shop, and specks of dust drifted lazily in the air, only noted by rays of the fading Sun. Bookshelves towered towards the ceiling, with book spines glimmering softly as though they pulsed with life. She could hear them saying, “Pick me, Pick me.” 

Displayed above the counter was a sign: 

"Each story takes you on an adventure—make your choice carefully." 

Norbert, the shopkeeper, was an older man with an eye patch; his one uncovered eye was bloodshot from burning the candle at both ends. He flashed a smile, revealing teeth that were yellow-tinged. "Is this your first time, dear?" he inquired. Scratching his scalp, making flakes of skin drop onto his shoulders. 

Enola nodded, her grip on her coat tightening. She gulped, "Yes, my friend Emma has... visited before." 

"Emma, yes, I'm familiar with her," he gestured toward the shelves. "Here, books are lived, not just read. Pick one and step into a booth. Remember, the story dictates when you come back."

She glanced over to see twelve booths at the back of the shop; six were in use.

Enola traced her fingers over an old book titled The Forest of Whispers. The moment she opened it, her fingers turned green, and the scent of damp earth filled the air; all her senses were heightened, as if the book was trying to pull her in. Alarmed, she quickly closed the book, the sound echoing in her mind like a firework. She placed it back on the shelf and waited for her heartbeat to calm. 

As she wandered through the shop, Enola noticed the children’s section. “Maybe something light-hearted,” she mused, wiping her brow. Drawn by the cheerful covers and playful illustrations. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached for a faded book titled The Clockwork Mouse. Its cover depicted a tiny mouse in a patchwork vest, riding atop a golden gear through a fantastical city of winding clocks. 

She smiled, tucked the book under her arm, and made her way to the last booth on the right—number twelve. 

As Enola settled into the booth and opened the book, the world around her began to shimmer and transform. She was suddenly in a lively clockwork city, where wheels, gears, and cogs filled the sky, and clocks of every kind and size occupied every corner. Yet, time remained frozen. A small mouse with bright eyes and a copper tail scurried up to her. 

“Welcome to Clock Ville! Enola, we have been waiting for you,” squeaked the mouse. “Ready to help me fix the Grand Clock?” 

Enola let out a laugh as her worries melted away. With the resourceful mouse at her side, she raced through twisting alleys where their footsteps rang out on cobblestone surfaces designed like a conveyor belt that ran from left to right and back again. The thing she noticed was that none of the clocks were working; they were all silent, not a tick, not a tock could be heard. 

The doors and windows on the grandfather clocks were neither open nor closed; there was something wrong here in Clock Ville.   

The Tiny Mouse looked up at Enola, his whiskers twitching with worry. “Without the tick-a te-tick or tock–a–te-tock, time itself has stopped. The city can’t wake, and the sun can’t rise,” he said, hanging his head low. 

Enola knelt beside him, her boots crunching on frost that shouldn’t have been there. “Then we’ll have to find it,” she said, brushing a lock of silver hair from her eyes. “Where was the last place you heard the tick-a te-tick?” 

The Tiny Mouse’s ears drooped. “In the Grand Clock Tower, before the gears stopped clanging, the pendulums stopped swaying, and the tick stopped ticking and the tock stopped tocking. It was what kept the rhythm alive.” 

Enola’s eyes narrowed. “Then that’s where we’re going.” 

Enola knelt beside him, determination flickering in her eyes. “There must be a way to fix it. Where do we start?” 

“But first,” The tiny mouse pointed to a circle of floating pocket watches at the centre of the plaza. Each watch spun slowly in the air, its hands unmoving. “The Puzzle Plaza always presents a riddle when Clock Ville is in trouble. Solve it, and we might find the answer.” 

As they approached, the largest watch glowed and spoke in a gentle, echoing voice: 

“I have hands but cannot clap, I mark the hours but never nap. Light or Dark, twelve hours apart. I don’t walk, but I can run late. What am I?” 

Enola grinned. “A clock!” she answered. “That was easy,” the watches spun faster, showering her with confetti made of golden foil. But still no tick or tock could be heard. 

After dusting themselves down, they rushed over to the Owl’s Roost and found a drowsy owl perched on a stack of books, blinking at them. “I can’t find my lost hour,” he hooted. “From twelve to one has upped and gone. With no lunch time, everyone will be hungry. Could you help me look for it?” 

The mouse pointed to a sundial in the garden; its shadow stuck between eleven and twelve. Enola looked around and noticed a branch above on an Eucalyptus tree that had been damaged in a storm. It had fallen at an odd angle, not wanting the tree to lose such a healthy branch, she pulled her belt from her coat. Standing under the falling branch, pushing it back up using all her might. Standing on her tiptoes. “Here,” she shouted to the Tiny Mouse, “Tie this around it, it will keep it in place until it knits back together.” 

The tiny mouse followed the instructions carefully. Once the branch was properly positioned, Enola secured the belt. Moments later, a shadow moved across the garden, and the sundial displayed the exact time. The owl adjusted its feathers and presented Enola with a cinnamon pastry as an expression of gratitude. 

“You have proved your worth,” said the tiny mouse, “Now on to the Grand Clock.” 

Their final puzzle took them to the Grand Clock’s heart, a vast chamber filled with cogs and pendulums. A riddle was etched into the brass. 

“To set time right, align the three:  The sun, the moon, and the smallest key.” 

Enola and the tiny mouse searched the chamber, hunting high and low. The tiny mouse found a sun-shaped lever and a moon-shaped dial. “Look, look”, said Enola, “A tiny key hidden behind a loose brick.” And working together, they aligned the levers, pulled on pulleys, dialled the dials, moved some Cogs to the left and some to the right, and everything clicked into position. “Are you ready for this?" Asked Enola. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” replied the tiny mouse. Has he turned the key? They waited. Nothing happened, not a tick, not a tock, not a click or a Klock. 

“Pull that lever,” Enola pointed to a small handle. The tiny mouse pulled with all his might.  A hiss and whistle could be heard, then a clunk and a grind, as the Cogs aligned. Then there were more hissing and clanging and clunking. The silence was broken when the Grand Clock chimed, sending a wave of warm, golden light through the city. 

This magical wave restored the energy of the city had bringing all the clocks back to life. The ticking and the tocking, the clanging of gears, the swishing of pendulums, the sound of the steam run cock-a-doodle-doo.

The Tiny mouse was doing cartwheels.

Enola just smiled. Standing back, hands on her hips and taking it all in, she could feel the air was filled with the gentle ticking of clocks and the sweet scent of cinnamon pastries. Enola felt lighter than ever, her heart brimming with joy and accomplishment. As the adventure faded, she found herself back in the booth, the magical world lingering in her memory. 

Enola opened the door and found her friend Emma going into booth number ten. In her hand was Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe “Wow, what a wonderful adventure that would be,” she thought to herself. 

With the Clockwork Mouse still in her hands. She felt lighter; some of the joy had stayed with her as she placed it back on the shelf. 

Norbert, the shopkeeper, watched her with a knowing smile. “Sometimes, the simplest stories leave the brightest marks,” he said. 

Enola grinned, feeling braver and more hopeful than before. 

As she left the shop, the bell chimed overhead, and Enola knew she would return—ready for whatever story called to her next.