Books have a smell of their own, and then, the places books are kept contain their own scents. One can open up a book and smell the acrid tang of tobacco, from the reader who smoked a pipe. One can open a book and smell the musty, dusty remnants of a story not kept current. One can walk into a bookstore and smell the pulped pages, hear the whisper of dust covers, the chattering of type as thousands of words proclaim a happening, an event. Madness walks the aisles of any bookstore, of every library, as reality is minced into smaller and smaller pieces by memory and the flagrant disregard of those who would record it. Yet, a room without a book is indeed an empty room.

Ever turn a book over because the cover disturbed you? Surrounded scary books with those of a kinder, gentler, or even more protective nature? The work of many faithful guard you with the aspect of their faith in a drawer in nearly every hotel room, an aegis against the threshholds left open from travellers without anchor. There are books you re-read to transport you to comfortable places, like nests of words and actions. There are books you pick up only to pass time, to fill in the empty spaces.

This book, though, this book is different than those. It is set out by the House Librarian for those who need to read it.

It is obviously an old book; the pages are yellowed and uneven, and the dull tan cover is worn around the edges. The title sometimes reads “Stories of the Land’s End Hotel and Resort.” The author is sometimes named Remington Davis.

Sometimes. Therein lies another tale.

The last chapter of the book is entitled “The End of the Line for…” and it writes a name.

Your name may be there. It depends on a curious whim. Perhaps that of Mr. Davis, Perhaps Lili--...excuse me, "Lily," as she prefers to be called, could tell you. Do not ask for whom the bell tolls. Do not ask who pays the tolls, who feeds the trolls...

This night, it reads the name of a child.

"An' he were taken to the Winterlands. The Winter's Land. The hinterlands and the winter's ends. The Land's End."

It sounds cold. The child wraps himself in the first blanket, the one that lies over the bed, revealing another blanket and a crisp white sheet. He looks at the door, hoping for his mother to return. He's hungry, too. Small for his age, often thought to be only four or five. His eyes are blue...so blue.

"Do you drift off to sleep, m'dear? I have so many stories to tell you! They shock with vulgarity, and titillate with the embrace of mortality. There's blood a-plenty, and apples, ah, the kind of apples she grows, full of knowledge."

The book doesn't make any sense. He sounds the words out. It's almost as if the book is speaking to someone. He's heard of books like that. He watched a movie once, even, where such a book was a villain, and the ink spilled out to suggest poison and snakes. He liked snakes as an idea, but wasn't really happy with them. The thought of apples, well, that just reminded him he wanted something to eat.

He looked up at the pile of luggage. There was a basket of fruit on the table. Maybe one apple.

Curious. The boy's parents had considered naming him "Adam." Foresight or coincidence?

There are places where those things are never debated, places like...in books.

"Help yerself, laddie. There's plenty where those came from, and they ain't gonna hurt you none. Now, the first cider press of the year, that'd none be good fer you, but maybe some juice or even a glass of mild wine...speakin' of which, I finds myself thirsty. I'll be back when you are."

The book emitted a faint scent of wine. Or maybe it was the winery wing, anyway. The young man unwrapped some of the fruit, choosing an apple that was mostly red with streaks of yellow. His teeth met its flesh with a resounding crunch, and the faint drops of juice that suggest an apple perfectly in its prime. It wasn't too sweet, nor was it sour, or even particularly tart. It was perfectly apple, the kind you always remember an apple being when you're hungry or in the hot summer sun. Another bite quickly followed, and then another.

"Thas good, m'boy. Now. There are many roads at the end of the line. The line, of course, referrin' to the border. At least in this case. Some of the roads lead up into murals. Some of them are doorways that are open, and some of 'em, well, they're doorways that're shut. I even heard once of a doorway made into a rug. That'd be a surprise, there ye are, walkin' down, mindin' yer own business, step in the wrong spot and snap! There you go! Popp'd right into another realm. Feet first, I'd hope."

The boy glanced at the rug, in hopes of something interesting, but alas, nothing was there for him to see, save some worn spaces on a greying carpet.

"There was an atlas, once, to the lands beyond. I remember the way it felt, hefty and yet far too light for all the lands it named. Naming's a curious thing. For example, I bet you opened the book here 'cause you saw your name. At the same time, the book's been printed longer than you've been alive."

That was odd. He was talking like he knew he was just a character in a book.

"Now, maybe you say, that well, the name's common enough. I suppose it is, all things considered. But what if I tell you your middle name, or the name of your mother?" Printed there, in real print.

The boy closed the book. That was a scary guess.

Curiousity, however, got the better of him.

"Ah. See? Now we're communicatin'. And tonight, there's going to be some bad uns comin' fer ya, boy. I'm not supposed to warn ya, but I figure, you've got to have a choice. Shouldn't matter what kinds of bargains your parents made. If'n yer gonna get in trouble, let it be you who did it. The apple was a calculated risk."

He threw the core away in a trashcan near the door.

"So. You can't hide from these folks. Not here, not in what you think is a hotel room. You need to go farther. This is the end of the line for a mortal life, never you doubt it. I'm taking a bit of liberty in crafting you choices. The closet you've been looking at? There's a door there. Nevermind you can't see it. It's really there. A word turns the bedspread into a cloak of invisibility. If you wander down the hall, past the colliseum, there's a door that looks like it leads to the elevator. It leads somewhere, well, I'm not sure meself, kiddo, but I've got it on good authority that it's a safer place than this room."

The boy looked up from the book at footsteps coming down the hall.

"Leave me on the nightstand. Maybe I can as tell them another story, one where you were eaten or ran away from home. I'd prefer to give you a happier ending. Never forget, young man, if they ask, you're a prince. Demand it, even in the face of a Queen. Oh, and that harmonica in your back pocket? Leave it here, too."

The pages fell to the floor.

Oh, what happens next? That's not written in this book. You see, sometimes there's a sequel. And where one Land ends, another might find a Beginning.

references include, but are not limited to: Blue Room Blues, With Regards The Management, Bookshelf, Once In A Blue Moon, Proof Of The Pudding, The Apple Orchard, and others.