HE LIGHT, SPLINTERED by richly colored glass, scattered a kaleidoscope across the face of the dozing faun. The great library was quiet this morning. Open books, turned page down like small canopies, sprinkled the floor. Cyrus had spent most of the night under a single guttering candle, searching hidden corners of the shelves for hints of a topic. His one desire was to compose a great book of his own, to make a small but lasting contribution to the library he loved so well. There was a text outlining the rituals of garden fairies—and wasn’t there an old tome about the songs of the great oaks?

Like any great faun, he wanted a legacy. He was certain the library had within its collections a subject which would fascinate and delight readers of the realm.

Cyrus sighed, emptied of inspiration.

Rapturous as it was for a bookish faun, he had spent the evening preoccupied with riddles of the past. Many of the treatises he sought had been lost in ancient wars, burned in the pyres of the past by zealots and primitive villains. The world was now at peace, and maybe, Cyrus mused, he could rewrite them to exhume the legends buried by the centuries.

At last, Cyrus had succumbed to his exhaustion in the valley between two lofty bookcases. There he remained until rosy warmth climbed the eastern skies.

***

HE LIBRARY WAS SMALL compared to those featured in the palaces of former empires. It was built among trees, nestled in the gentle slopes of the forest. Most assumed it was the topography of the great wood. But with a squint, one could see a round window arched toward the sunlight, stained glass, bearing an image of the forest, a long flute, and an open book lifted toward the crest. A rounded door then becomes visible, hidden by strands of emerald vines bursting with blossoms. 

Inside, Cyrus slept very well, considering that he slumbered on a hardwood floor. He blinked in the sunlight, sat up to find his hooves positively covered in curled scrolls and loose papers which reminded him of lily petals when they floated downstream.

A knock came to the door.

“Mr. Cyrus? Are you in, sir?” A childish alto chirped behind the door.

He cleared his throat. “Um, just a minute.”

Cyrus (oh, how his joints ached with the ages!) grunted as he pulled himself to his feet. He sighed at the mess made the previous evening. No time to consider that now. He had company.

“Mr. Cyrus?” The voice lowered. “I guess he isn’t here...”

Cyrus hurried over to the door as fast as his stiff limbs would allow. 

“By Silenus, the impatience of these rascals!” 

He opened the door to reveal two child fauns. Their golden eyes peered up at him in genuine affection.

“Ah, Thomas and Matilda. What are you doing here so early?”

“Early?” Matilda squawked. “It’s nearly noon.” 

“Well, I had a late night,” Cyrus replied. 

“We wanted to show you something.” Thomas stepped back. 

Cyrus blinked into the sunlight, scanning the trees and foliage which cradled the library door.

Cyrus cleared his throat. “I don’t see anything. You surely aren’t trying to play a trick on an old faun, are you?”

Suddenly out of a copse of thick trees and tangled bushes came a small child.

A human boy.

The boy appeared to be no older than eight years of age. His flannel nightgown climbed up his arms and settled high on his neck. He appeared as the ancient texts claimed—rosy cheeks, a swath of golden hair atop his head, bright eyes of deep azure. He crept out of the trees like a scared rabbit, shivering in the uncertainty of his situation. He was a lovely thing.

“Why, hello little boy! What is your name?” Cyrus smiled.

Matilda broke in. “He is really frightened. When we found him by the river, he was in tears. He said he had never seen a place so beautiful.”

Matilda turned and made eye contact with the boy. “C’mon Warren. Don’t be afraid. Mr. Cyrus won’t hurt you, I promise.”

***

LOWLY, A BOY EMERGED from the shadows. His fragile bare feet bore five plump toes each, a surprising change from the hardened hoofs which encircled the ankles and feet of the fauns. The boy crouched, barely disturbing the grass beneath him, every step measured and gentle. He stopped a few feet away from the fauns.

“Good morning, sir. My name is Warren. I’m from Kent.”

“He doesn’t know how he got here,” said Thomas.

“I was reading a book and fell asleep with it open on my lap,” said the boy. “I woke up to hear the sound of water. I opened my eyes to see a waterfall in this beautiful world. The animals talk, like they do in my book. I’ve been alone for hours, and I miss my brothers and my mum and dad.”

Warren, gathering his confidence, approached the old faun. “I’m sorry to be a bother…”

“Oh nonsense,” reassured the librarian. “Come in and have a cup of tea.”

Cyrus spread his arms in warmth. The boy relented at last, and followed the faun inside. The crumb of an idea was beginning to take shape in Cyrus’s mind.

Matilda stepped into the library and noted the scattered books and scrolls everywhere.

“Mr. Cyrus. Did you have a wild night in here? It’s a mess.” She looked up at Cyrus and chuckled.

However, her joke was drowned by the boy’s sheer amazement. It was like something out of his wildest imagination, ripped from the pages of his beloved fairy books. This library, these fauns, this lovely place that transported him away from the ravages of the Great War. He was torn between rejoicing and weeping for his lost world.

Towers of books were stacked high, from the floor to the wooden beams that crisscrossed above them, which seemed to vanish in the airy heights of the rotund ceiling. Warren couldn’t help but gasp. He had seen the door and the window. The boy was amazed to discover that the kudzu and mossy vines hid such a splendid secret.

Cyrus interrupted the reverie.

“Do have a seat, Warren,” said the faun, gesturing to a comfy reading chair upholstered in emerald velvet.

A cup of tea was brought for the boy, as well as a collection of small biscuits. Warren couldn’t remember the last time he ate.

“Mr. Cyrus,” Warren began, “I am grateful to you for this hospitality. While I think this is a marvelous world, I really would like to return home soon. Mummy always says not to be an impertinence.”

“Warren, you are not an impertinence, but I understand why you wish to return home. If you are looking for information on how to do so, you have come to the right place. This library has centuries of secrets within its walls. We will hopefully soon discover how to get you back to your rightful home.”

Thomas and Matilda assisted Cyrus in pulling more books from the shelves. Cyrus stroked his beard in contemplation. There was something from the Old Wisdom that he had heard many years ago— a hint of a species called humans. And here, sitting right under his nose, was a human in the flesh!

Over the next few hours they searched for books detailing humans and the impact of magic. They searched through the volumes Cyrus had scoured the previous evening.

Light faded through the stained glass and a fire roared in the fireplace. The young fauns were excused to return home. Cyrus sat across from the young boy, a warmth in his gaze. He agreed to give the boy a safe place to sleep while they determined how he could be returned home safely.

A real boy, he thought.

Cyrus inquired about the boy’s homelife. He was determined to find out all he could. 

Warren revealed that his family had eaten a meal called ‘meatloaf and potatoes.’ He chatted with his family for an hour or so, then was sent to bed and allowed to read for an hour to wind down for the evening. Cyrus listened carefully, taking notes.

Warren cleared his throat, sipped his tea, and unraveled his story. 

“Daddy is a war pilot. Mummy cried for days when he was called up. She worries someone will shoot Daddy’s plane down. He told her that he was good at flying and not to worry. We’re proud of Daddy. He is a hero. He is out fighting. Me and my brothers will sometimes play soldiers. I put my arms out and fly around, going in and out of the make-believe cannons and warships. I want to make Daddy proud. At night, I dream of travelling to faraway lands to bring Daddy home so Mummy will stop crying and be happy again. Reading helps me imagine a place where I can see Daddy again, where there are no bullets or loud tanks or poison gas. I thought I found it when I fell asleep and woke up in this enchanted world.” 

Warren’s eyes fell. Cyrus witnessed them filling with tears.

“I was looking for Daddy, calling for him. I looked up in the sky searching for his plane. I walked along the hillside, followed the gravel pathways, yelling into the trees, ‘Daddy, it’s Warren. I’m here. Where are you?’ I walked for hours and hours. My feet were hurting. I missed my Daddy, and now I missed my Mummy and brothers too. I was alone, so I started to cry.”

Warren took a deep breath. His eyes met Cyrus’s steady gaze, and he sniffled a bit. Warren recovered himself after a brief pause. 

“That is when Matilda and Thomas found me. I was a little scared at first. I’ve only met fauns in my storybooks. But I found them to be very pleasant.” 

Cyrus sat and listened, scribbling on a bit of parchment all of Warren’s thoughts. Cyrus absorbed the miscellany of stories, behaviors, histories, and curiosities of this creature. 

when will I ever have an opportunity again to sit down with such a specimen, he wondered.

***

HE BOY CONTINUED ON for the whole evening and into the next day, at Cyrus’s behest. He chatted about his teacher and the drudgery of something he called “mathematics,” recalled fishing in the lake by his home and snagging butterflies in a net during the springtime, and lamented how awful brussel sprouts were despite his mother sprinkling them with seasonings. Warren described them as little wet heads of lettuce which languished beside his pot roast. Cyrus silently remembered a similar vegetable in his mother’s garden years before (one which seemed a bit bitter on his tongue as well). There was no rhyme or reason to these recollections. Warren let the subjects flow and curve like a mountain stream. Finally, when he had talked himself tired, he asked Cyrus about returning home. Cyrus promised to explore the ancient volumes for an enchantment that would secure his return. 

A week vanished and became two weeks. 

Warren was a great help around the library. Cyrus found him polite and obedient. He dusted old shelves, carried books to and fro, and clipped blooms from the nearby riverbank, placing them in a vase near the fireplace. At night, Warren and Cyrus sat down to their ritual of tea, and Cyrus prompted him with questions, which Warren answered with great enthusiasm.

But every night, he would inquire of the faun, “have you found it yet? Have you found the spell?”

Just two evenings ago Cyrus had sequestered himself near an old oak shelf, waist-high and sagging under the weight of its wisdom. Books were stacked vertically and horizontally, which is why some volumes had escaped Cyrus’s attention. He blew the dust off of an old volume titled Rumors of the Past and found within its pages many old spells and mischiefs that had died, he thought, with his ancestors.

There, buried among the pages, was a spell which transported beings from one world to another. 

It was worth a try.

Yet, Cyrus didn’t quite have all that he needed for his book. Surely, he had mined the ways of humans (be it narrow, based upon the experience of one human). He imagined during these hours a lingering aspiration, wrapping his ink-stained fingers around a text with his name inscribed in gold. To create something, to place a quill to parchment and birth something meaningful and exquisite. He envisioned his words lying aslant on a shelf sheathed in leather. He had climbed these stacks seeking inspiration. And here—here was his answer. He mustn’t tell the boy yet. He still needed time.

***

HAT EVENING Cyrus and Warren had their usual chat by the fireside, and Warren’s plucked flowers slouched slightly in a vase by their elbows. Cyrus readied his pen to record more fascinating stories. Warren reminded him again of the war which stole his father, of the fog which men used as weapons, and of the ravaging flu that claimed many of his friends. 

“Warren, may I ask you a question?” asked Cyrus.

Warren nodded.

“Forgive me my ignorance—about your race and the habits of your people—but I can’t help but wonder why you are so determined to return to this cruel place. It sounds as if it is fraught with endless strife, stained by soldiers’ blood, by an obstinate illness, by nothing but struggle and savagery. Why not stay here? Why not enjoy a world full of beauty and magnificence, a world without fighting and disease?”

Warren paused. 

“You are only focusing on the bad things I have told you, Mr. Cyrus,” said Warren. “There are many good things about my world. There is the embrace of my mother’s arms, friends who make me laugh until my stomach hurts, games I play in the meadow with my brothers, books in which I learn all kinds of new and interesting things, the song of rain on my roof during a thunderstorm, trees…”

Cyrus interrupted, “But Warren, we have love and happiness here, we have books, we have flowers and trees of unparalleled beauty. And yet, you would trade it all for a chance to return to your world?”

Warren was unfazed. “Yes, sir. As soon as I have the chance.”

Something broke in Cyrus’s chest. He could no longer harbor this great secret. He looked across to the boy. To deny him his family and his world was simply cruel. 

Cyrus sighed. “Warren, I believe home is a very special place. It means so much to you, and I…I want to reunite you with those you love.” 

Cyrus stood and walked to the old shelf and pulled Rumors of the Past from the top. He flipped it open to about the middle and faced Warren. Then he handed Warren the book. 

“Warren, I need you to repeat these words, then I will play my flute. You will drift to sleep in the chair. When you awake, you will be back in your own world.”

Warren sat back down on the chair with the book open on his lap. He repeated the enchantment. Soon after, Cyrus began to play his flute. Drowsiness languished over Warren. His eyelids fluttered, his limbs grew limp. Cyrus continued the tune, swaying with the rhythm of the old ballad. When his eyes rested on the chair Warren had vanished. The book lay still, reflecting the warmth of the flames.

***

YRUS WALKED to his old writing desk. Fresh parchment waited to be filled, curled in scrolls and placed in a long vase. His inkwell was filled to the brim, fragrant when the cork was loosened. Cyrus angled himself just right for a night of composition. His notes were at his left arm, a blotter at his right. Cyrus swallowed and reassured himself. Warren must continue his story, but Cyrus had yet to start his. Yes, yes. He could do this.

He raised his quill to the paper and wrote in bold, swoopy letters Is Man a Myth?