Peter picked up the book and stared at it. It didn’t look like much. The cover was torn and boring; old brown leather, no illustrations and no writing. How was he supposed to know what it was about? He opened it.

The pages stared back at him, empty. No words were printed that could take him to another world, away from his parents divorce, his new home, his new school.

“Stupid,” he muttered. Instantly, words appeared on the soft, ivory paper.

“Speak for yourself,” they said. He dropped the book as though it had burned him. It bounced on the floor and fell open.

“Ow,” wrote the book. “Disrespectful: (adjective). Also: rude, impolite, bad mannered, discourteous, INSOLENT,” it grumbled.

Peter looked round the used bookshop to see if anyone else had noticed. Mr. Gruber, the owner, was sleeping in a chair, pretending to read.

Mr. Gruber’s used bookshop was on the ground floor of the apartment building Peter and his mother had moved into a few weeks ago. Every day after school, Peter waited in the shop for his mother to get home from work.

He knew she was hoping he’d discover a love of books, but the tired, dull covers put Peter off, and there wasn’t a very big children’s section. He often had to look in other parts of the shop for a good story.

This time, Mr. Gruber told him to look in the “Curiosities” section, before settling back into his chair with a copy of “Einstein’s Theory of Relativity” and falling asleep within seconds.

Peter looked back at the dropped book. The words were changing.

“What are you waiting for?” Peter read. He gulped, and picked up the book. The words changed again. “Find a good seat and strap yourself in. We’re in for a bumpy ride!”

Not entirely sure that he wanted a bumpy ride, but too curious to put the book back, Peter headed for his favorite spot, a faded green velvet window seat. He settled in with the book on his knees, and waited.

“What are you waiting for?” scribbled the book.

“What am I supposed to do?” asked Peter.

“Dream, you uncouth youth! If you could go anywhere and be anyone, where would you go?”

Peter thought of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table and, the book cracked its spine with disgust. “Not that old chestnut!” it scrawled. “Why does everybody want to go there?’ The pages fluttered and settled. “Your dream is my command,” it wrote neatly.

A cold wind blew across Peter, making him feel like his bones were shriveling, and small flakes of snow landed on the book. He looked up. Where there were shelves of dusty books a moment before, there now stretched a vast, frozen plain surrounded by snow-covered mountains. Peter’s hands clenched around the book.

“Where are we?” he whispered, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. “It’s so c-cold!” Looking down at his shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops, he watched as the flip-flops were replaced by tan leather boots, his shorts became velvet breeches, and his t-shirt turned into a brocaded tunic belted with a fine sash. At his side hung a heavy, simple sword, and on his head he felt a thick, fur hat tickle his forehead.

“Much more appropriate,” wrote the book. The snowflakes were making the ink run. Peter had to guess what the book’s next words were. “-ind cover.” He tried to figure out what the book was trying to say. He could feel a strange rhythmic vibration in the ground under his feet. The book tried again, but again a big, wet snowflake splatted against the page. “Find –over” scrawled the book. The vibration was getting stronger, and Peter could hear a sound like drumming in his ears. “FIND COVER!” scratched the book, its ink spluttering and splashing.

Peter looked up to see a horde of riders with swords held aloft and banners flying from spears, emitting blood curdling shrieks and whoops as they charged. He stood frozen to the spot, unable to move. Then he was airborne, flying through the air before landing on the saddle of a rider clad in hard, dented armor. The rider’s cloak kept flicking Peter in the face and making his eyes run. He clutched the book with one hand and the rider’s belt with his other, blinking back tears. His head felt like it was going to fall off and the fur hat slipped over his eyes.

He felt the horse slow to a halt, and heard the drumming of the other riders fade into the distance. The rider slipped from the saddle and pulled Peter down to the ground, where his knees gave way and he landed in a heap on the snow. He stood up, pushed the hat out of his eyes and dusted himself off. With both hands.

“Where’s the book?” he gasped. He must have dropped it. The only part left was a piece of dry leather which had caught in the folds of his sash. He put it in his pocket and was going to run back to look for the book but the knight grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him back.

“You’d best stay out of sight, lad,” said the knight in a strange accent. Sort of English and sort of Scottish. “What in the name of the Grail are you doing out here?”

“I’m Peter. I was reading a book and…” He stopped. It was pointless to explain. Who would believe him? “I’m lost,” he finished. That part was true enough. He looked up at the knight. “Who are you?” he asked, a little tremor of hope and excitement in his voice.

“Sir Gawain of the Knights of the Round Table, at your service,” said the knight, pulling up his visor to reveal a pair of merry green eyes. “And this is Bane.” The large dog at his side sniffed Peter’s shoes.

“Oh,” said Peter, trying to hide his disappointment.

The knight knelt on one knee with difficulty, his armor creaking slightly. “This snow plays devil with my joints,” he grumbled.

“Some WD-40 would take care of that,” said Peter, remembering the oil he used to grease his bike chain. That made him think of home, which made him feel homesick. He swallowed hard.

“Where are we? It doesn’t look much like England,” he observed, eyeing the snow-covered plain with mistrust.

“England?” the knight roared, obviously amused. “No, ‘tis not England’s green and pleasant lands. We are on Crusade to the Holy Land, with orders from the Pope to convert the pagans of Europe.”

“And we are in…?” Peter prompted.

“Prussia!”

“And those men on horseback were...?”

“Turks,” said Gawain, as though he was swearing. “Bloodthirsty lot, always invading this and invading that.”

“And King Arthur?” asked Peter.

“Where the king should be, at Camelot!” laughed Gawain. Peter’s heart sank. He had wished for Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, and here he was, in a ‘God-forsaken country’ full of bloodthirsty Turks and no Arthur in sight.

“I have to find the book,” Peter muttered to himself, searching the expanse of glistening snow with his eyes.

“I understand,” said Gawain, nodding solemnly, “It is your Grail.”

“Yes,” said Peter, figuring that might be the best way to get Gawain to help. “I have to find it and take it back where it belongs. Where I belong,” he added.

They retraced their steps but the book had disappeared under a fresh layer of snow. It was nowhere to be seen. Bane snuffled at Peter’s pockets, looking for treats. Peter remembered the piece of leather in his pocket. He showed it to Bane.

“Can you find it, Bane? Can you? You’re my only hope.” The dog licked it and then tried eating it before spitting it out onto the snow with a reproachful look on his face.

“Useless mutt,” sighed Peter, beginning to feel more than a little desperate.

He bent down to pick up the piece of leather, but it flipped out of reach. Was it the wind? He ran and reached for it again, but it traveled further this time. Soon, he, Bane, and Gawain in his creaky armor were hopping, leaping and bounding through the snow after the tiny piece of leather, but it always skipped just out of reach.

Finally, with an almighty shout, they threw themselves at the piece of leather, landing in a messy, uncomfortable tangle of limbs, armor and dog fur.

“Did you get it?” asked Gawain, his voice muffled by his visor.

Peter pushed Bane aside and looked. A small, choked cry escaped him. There, half covered by snow, lay the book, its leather slightly darkened by damp. The piece of leather hopped into its place on the spine of the book as though nothing had happened.

Peter brushed the remaining snow carefully from its cover, and opened it.

“Took you long enough,” the book scrawled, in its most spidery, long-winded script.

Sir Gawain gasped. “The book is enchanted! A Grail indeed!” he said, his eyes filled with a rather strange light. He reached for the book.

“Help! Abductor: (noun). Also: thief, burglar, pickpocket, bandit, CROOK!” the book scratched, as Peter snatched it away. He just had time to shout “To Mr. Gruber’s shop, NOW!” before Sir Gawain threw himself at the book with all his might.

Everything went dark.

Peter felt himself being shaken violently. “NO!” he shouted, “You can’t have it!”

“What on earth are you talking about, boy?” said Mr. Gruber. “You can’t sleep here, you know. I need to close up and get home.”

Peter blinked at him. Home. He looked at the book.

“The best word in the English language,” it squiggled. “Come back and visit. I’ll be waiting.”

The End

Lia Keyes was born in London, England, to a family so terrifying that she used to lock herself away in her room and write for hours, rather than risk communicating with them. She wrote her first novel at the age of twelve, read Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekov for fun, and was generally acknowledged as weird by her friends at school, who nevertheless stuck around to see what trouble she would get in to next. Twenty-eight years of travel, two kids, two dogs, two cats and a bird later, Lia is hard at work on her first fantasy novel for middle grade readers. She lives in Los Angeles, California

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