Стража! Стража!

           And,becausemagiccanonlylooselybebound,theLibrarybooksthemselvesweremorethanmerepulpedwoodandpaper. 

           Rawmagiccrackledfromtheirspines,earthingitselfharmlesslyinthecopperrailsnailedtoeveryshelfforthatverypurpose. Fainttraceriesofbluefirecrawledacrossthebookcasesandtherewasasound,apaperywhispering,suchasmightcomefromacolonyofroostingstarlings.Inthesilenceofthenightthebookstalkedtooneanother. 

           Therewasalsothesoundofsomeonesnoring. 

           Thelightfromtheshelvesdidn’tsomuchilluminateashighlightthedarkness,butbyitsvioletflickerawatchermightjusthaveidentifiedanancientandbattereddeskrightunderthecentraldome. 

           Thesnoringwascomingfromunderneathit,whereapieceoftatteredblanketbarelycoveredwhatlookedlikeaheapofsandbagsbutwasinfactanadultmaleorangutan. 

           ItwastheLibrarian. 

           Notmanypeoplethesedaysremarkeduponthefactthathewasanape.Thechangehadbeenbroughtaboutbyamagicalaccident,alwaysapossibilitywheresomanypowerfulbooksarekepttogether,andhewasconsideredtohavegotofflightly. Afterall,hewasstillbasicallythesameshape.Andhehadbeenallowedtokeephisjob,whichhewasrathergoodat,although’allowed’isnotreallytherightword. ItwasthewayhecouldrollhisupperlipbacktorevealmoreincrediblyyellowteeththananyothermouththeUniversityCouncilhadeverseenbeforethatsomehowmadesurethematterwasneverreallyraised.