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Chapter 23 

The Unveiling

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Mrs. Icenogle waited eagerly at the classroom door. She could only imagine how anxious the children must be, not knowing what, if anything, was inside the chest. The anticipation was overwhelming, and she thought to herself that it had been the longest night of her life.  

 

She could hardly contain herself as she watched the children quicken their pace, making their way toward the classroom. It was obvious they couldn't contain their eagerness as they raced through the doorway, each dropping their backpacks as they ran, begging to know what was in the chest. The sound of their voices was deafening as she tried to calm them. 

 

“Boys and girls! I, too, am excited, but you need to pick up your bags and put them away. When you’re finished unpacking, come to the carpet.” 

 

Although the children did not quiet down, they did as they were asked. After Mrs. Icenogle took attendance and the lunch count, she picked up the beautifully carved wooden chest and carried it to her rocking chair. As she took her seat, their voices rose to a feverish pitch, begging to know what had been found. In her most calming voice, she reassured the children that they would soon see what was hidden within the box if only they would sit quietly for just a moment. As they took their seats, Principal Johnson came in and pulled up a chair while Nurse Foster stood in the doorway. 

 

It took every ounce of effort for the children to contain themselves. But once they had, Mrs. Icenogle began to explain. “Ian, you were right. Your hunch paid off! I think we may have found the answer and the proof that the legend of Room 114 is not a myth!” With their eyes wide open and hands over their mouths, the children gasped. 

 

“Boys and girls, do you remember the pages that appeared to be cut out from the old journal?” This started a barrage of speculation and discussion amongst the children. “Well, before I show you the contents of the chest, I need to share what I found written on those very pages.” The gasps grew louder as Mrs. Icenogle opened the latch and slowly lifted the lid. She then carefully removed the missing pages from inside the chest. Remarkably, the children sat frozen, holding their breath, waiting for the contents to be revealed. 

 

Mrs. Icenogle continued, “What I found inside this beautiful chest is extraordinary. Before we begin, I want to tell you how grateful I am to be able to share this with you. And once again, Ian, I want to thank you for your strength and determination. Without your detective work, what I’m about to show you might have been lost forever in the rubble of the old school.” At that point, all eyes were on Ian as he received pats on the back and congratulations from the entire class. 

 

 Mrs. Icenogle gently turned the pages so that each child could see the magnificent script. 

“Boys and girls, I have, to the best of my ability, attempted to transcribe the beautifully written letter to Ms. Wallagundus on May 20, 1901.” The excited chatter of the students was hard to contain as they all recalled the old photographs. It was amazing to actually have a real face to connect to the person in the letter. 

 

Mrs. Icenogle continued, “The author of the correspondence is a Miss Margaret O’Shea.” The children began to talk among themselves, guessing who this person could be. They realized they had not found her picture and wondered if maybe there were more pictures to be found. 

 

Mrs. Icenogle put her foot down with a resounding, “No!” to a third field trip to Oglesby School. She then asked the children to form a circle on the carpet, relax, close their eyes, and take a deep breath as she began to read a detailed account of Miss O’Shea’s journey, in her own words. 

 

May 20, 1901  

My Dearest Mrs. Wallagundus,  

 

What I’m about to share with you is a tale reserved only for those who possess the heart of a child or the eyes of a dreamer. Others, I fear, might find it preposterous. So, I ask you to indulge me as I transport you back to the spring of 1871, the day I embarked on a journey from my beloved homeland of Ireland.  

 

 My family lived ‘atop a lovely, emerald-green mountainside overlooking the sea. As magnificently beautiful as it was, life was difficult for the farmers, my father among them. A long dry spell and relentless potato blight had ravaged our crops for many years. The famine took a severe toll on our village and my family, making it harder and harder to stave off starvation.  

 

 At the tender age of 13, I was given an opportunity to help save my family from these hardships. My dear mother had reached out to my Aunt Ruth, who lived in America. Aunt Ruth and Uncle Ernie had prospered there. However, everything changed when Aunt Ruth fell ill and could no longer care for her newborn son and three other children. Uncle Ernie secured my passage to New York aboard the steamship Adriatic, where I was to earn a wage by caring for Aunt Ruth and my young cousins.  

 

 This arrangement was a blessing. The wages I earned were more than sufficient to sustain my family back home.  

 

 I remember the day of my departure as if it were yesterday. It was a beautiful late winter day, the fresh, crisp air filled with a chill. I recall seeing my breath as I looked out over the fields, with the first signs of spring beginning to poke through the rocky soil. Yet still, the lingering traces of winter snow lay upon the distant hillside. The image of our warm but meager cottage has filled my dreams with comfort for many years.  

 

 Mother had spent many days shearing the sheep, dyeing their wool a deep red, and many nights spinning by candlelight until she fashioned the most beautiful cloak I'd ever seen. Its deep crimson color, with a white ermine fur-lined hood and muff, is etched in my memory. My eldest brother Lawrence followed me to Papa's mule cart, carrying my remaining possessions inside two old, tattered carpetbags.  

 

 Isn't it odd how one's mind's eye can transport one back in time, to the very sights and smells of a day long past? But I digress. Allow me to continue with my story.  

 

 It was finally the day of my departure, the hardest day of my life. I will always remember seeing my mother, brothers, and sisters crying, while Father fought back his tears. Everyone in our village came to the mountainside to bid me farewell and wish me safe travels and success in America. They, too, were painfully aware of how important it was for me to send back my wages.  

 

 That morning, as we gathered around the old cart, the sound of the first steam whistle echoed in the valley below. As I kissed each of my eight brothers and sisters goodbye and held baby Sarah for the last time, something quite odd happened.  

 I was climbing into Father’s old cart when I was stopped by the rising voices of the children. They were not cries of sadness but of fear. In the distance, along the tree line, appeared the figure of what seemed to be a large animal or bear. From afar, it resembled the mythical Sasquatch.  

 

 The mothers pulled their babies close to their chests, while the young ones clung to their legs in sheer terror. But as he made his way into the crowd, it became evident that it was not a creature at all. It was a man, covered from head to toe in a dense cloak of sheep’s wool. His long, craggy face was covered by a coarse black beard and mustache, peppered with wiry gray hair cascading over his barrel chest.  

 

 As the crowd parted to let him through, the elders whispered his name, Anton the old hermit. He had left our village many years before. Throughout our childhood, we’d heard tales of an old man living among wild animals. Until then, I’d believed the stories were embellished to ensure we never ventured into the darkness of the forest.  

 

 Bypassing the crowds, he walked directly to me. My initial fright was diminished when I saw that hidden beneath his long and bushy grey eyebrows were light blue eyes filled with compassion and a sense of loneliness. I no longer saw a massive mountain of a man but instead the gentle kindness of a man driven by a purpose.   

 

 As he approached, I saw that he had something cradled within his protective arms. With great care and a sense of reluctance he lovingly placed a beautifully embroidered sack into my hands. Leaning closer, he whispered in a soft, yet pleading voice a simple phrase, one that would take a near lifetime to understand. His message was “There is Life Through Knowledge.”  

 

 As I attempted to respond to his gift, the throaty bellow of the ship’s horn and the mounting voices of the crowd drew my attention away momentarily. When I turned back, he had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared, leaving me unable to ask what he had given me and why. Instead, the frenzy surrounding my departure overtook the moment. As I clutched the meaningless sack in my hands, my mind was taken away to the realization of my departure.  

 

Father held my hand tightly as we rode down the mountainside to the waiting steamship. The beautiful sounds of those I loved began fading into the distance as the steamship’s third and final whistle sounded. I had only enough time to receive one final and lasting embrace from my father before boarding the ship and leaving my homeland forever.  

 The weeks aboard the Adriatic, caring for the children of the wealthy passengers, as well as those first months in America, have blurred into a welcome haze over the years. My aunt and uncle ensured that I wanted for nothing, providing me with a loving family and an excellent education. After the children had grown up and no longer needed my care, the university assisted in securing me a teaching position in the small community of Piopolis. My life became quite comfortable as I settled into my new home. The kindness of the townspeople was overwhelming.  

 

 Those first few months in my little one-room school house, were quite an adjustment for me as well as for my students. Many of the older boys had spent their lives working in the fields, not sitting still for hours behind a school desk. But then and quite by accident, the most remarkable and unexplainable event occurred. That was the day I was forced to question everything that I’d always, and without doubt, held to be true.  

 

 The changing leaves and smell of autumn comforted me as I walked to school that day. I recall noting the low-hanging dark clouds and the unseasonably chilly air that replaced the summer heat from just a week earlier. Our lessons had progressed as usual that day, until we stepped outside for recess. The weather had taken a real turn. The high noon sun was no longer visible.  

 

As we stood outside bewildered and shivering, the first snowflakes began to fall. The children, unaccustomed to the cold, returned quickly to the schoolhouse after a short recess. I found it difficult to maintain instruction as the winter winds began to moan. It became apparent that my trying to teach an arithmetic lesson was falling on deaf ears, as the excitement mounted over the thoughts of forts and snowball fights. I finally gave in and called off school for a rare snow holiday in mid-October.   

 

 As the children prepared to leave, Josef, the eldest boy, directed the other boys to fill the coal box as he stoked the stove, while the older girls helped the youngest children get ready to face the near-blizzard conditions. I encouraged the older boys and girls to quicken their pace to ensure the younger children were safely in their mothers’ arms before making their own way home. I watched as the smallest of children were placed atop the shoulders of the bigger boys and, hand in hand, vanished into the falling snow.  

 

 Everyone but sweet little Isaiah. Unlike his classmates, Isaiah’s father always dropped him off and picked him up. When he was just four years old, he had fallen out of an apple tree, and the injuries to his leg made it difficult to walk. We had just snuggled up to read a good book when the door suddenly flew open as though it had a mind of its own. The snow and near gale-force winds filled the little room as Isaiah’s father attempted to secure the door. Once inside, Isaiah’s father insisted that after he had his son home safely, he would return for me.  

 

After a short debate, I convinced him that it would not be necessary. I assured him that I had everything I needed, including enough work to keep me busy all evening.  

 

Fortunately, it was the responsibility of every child to bring a small bucket of coal or corncobs to fire the potbellied stove, leaving me with plenty of heating fuel, more than enough lantern oil, and the children’s lunches that were left behind in their hasty departure.  

 

You know a teacher’s work is never finished. So, I added a few more pieces of coal to the stove, lit the oil lantern, and tidied the room. As I was straightening the cloakroom, I found several lunch pails still filled with delicious homemade snacks. I returned to my desk and began grading the students’ writings as I enjoyed my dinner.  

 

Once the sun had finally set, the stove found it increasingly difficult to warm my little schoolhouse. So, I snuggled into my burgundy cape, pulled up the fur hood, and rested my head atop my snow-white muff. I intended to rest my eyes for just a moment, but the warmth of the cape and fur pillow lulled me to sleep.  

 

As I began to drift into a deep slumber, I was startled by the sound of voices. I called out to no avail, thinking it must be Isaiah’s father returning. Walking to the door, I found myself scolding him for venturing out in this horrible storm. Stepping onto the threshold, I pulled the door shut behind me. Outside, the full moon illuminated the glistening snow, transforming the landscape into a winter wonderland. Not seeing him, I continued to call out. I lifted my dress to avoid dragging it through the snow and walked around the building looking for footprints. The snow was pristine! It was like a blank canvas.  

 

Kicking the snow off my boots and feeling a bit foolish after not finding a single footprint, I returned to the warmth of my classroom and back to grading their work. Some time had passed, and once again I had difficulty fighting off sleep. So, I stoked the fire and adjusted the lantern’s flame to just a flicker. I readied myself as best I could. It was unnerving to be alone, and after the last scare, it was hard to fall asleep. Surrounded by darkness and solitude, my thoughts began to race. I thought of Mother, Father, and my homeland. As my eyes became heavy, my mind drifted back to the day my journey had begun, the very day of my departure. The deeper I drifted into sleep, the more I was transported back to the pleasant memories of my dear childhood.  

 

As I drifted in and out of a dream state, I was abruptly brought to my senses by the sounds of children’s laughter. This time I remained perfectly still, listening intently until I was certain that I truly was hearing voices! Might a student have hidden away or possibly returned when the storm ended? As I listened, it became evident that the sounds of merriment were not resonating from outside but from within my schoolhouse. They were without a doubt coming from the cloakroom directly behind my desk.   

 

Half expecting to find a mischievous child hidden away, I silently made my way to the cloakroom door. Using the element of surprise to catch the intruders, I threw the door open with great force. The harvest full moon casts an illuminating beam of light through the small windowpanes. My eyes were immediately drawn to the source of that light. When my gaze followed the beam, it revealed a sight my own eyes could not believe!  

Scurrying atop and within the bookshelf directly under the window were dozens of small furry white creatures! Overcome with an overwhelming feeling of disbelief, the total surprise and shock caused me to faint straight away! I have no idea how long I remained on the floor, though I do recall awakening to the sensation of butterfly wings tickling my cheek. I opened my eyes and attempted to sit up, scooting as far away from the furry intruders as I could in the small room. Then, without warning, they began talking all at once. Their voices were high-pitched and harmonious, like a chorus of tinkling bells.   

 

I’m not sure if it was their appearance or the fact that they were all talking and I could understand them, but that unexpected fright caused me to faint away once again. Looking back, not my finest moment!  

 

When I woke up, the cluster of creatures had vanished, leaving only two behind. Perched upon my lap sat the largest, who clearly said, "Welcome back, Ms. O’Shea, we’ve waited a very long time for you."  

 

After I regained my composure, the realization hit that the remaining creatures looked remarkably familiar. The largest with bright blue eyes and a wise expression, introduced himself. "I am Sir William Bartholomew Bookworm, but you may call me Billy. And this," he gestured towards a slightly smaller creature beside him, "is my dear wife, Duchess Elizabeth Beatrice Bookworm, or Bea for short."   

 

Bea smiled warmly and added, "We are the guardians of hidden knowledge and secrets untold. Anton sent us to guide you."  

 

Still dazed and disoriented, I managed to ask, "Why me? What am I to learn?"  

 

"You possess a rare gift," replied Billy, his tiny paws clasped together. "The embroidered sack Anton gave you holds the key to unlocking the wisdom of the ages. It is your destiny to uncover and share this knowledge."  

 

Sir William B. Bookworm (Billy) began to describe a mystical and magical world filled with every storybook character ever brought to life by an author, and of a family heritage that dated back thousands of years! Billy explained that they were from a faraway land and that the Guardian ensured that he and his family could fulfill their mission by creating a world where young and old develop a sense of wonderment and a deep love for knowledge.  

 While Billy was speaking, I caught a slight glimpse of movement from inside the old carpet bag that I’d brought from home. I can’t tell you how many times I attempted to throw those tattered old bags away. I just couldn’t bring myself to let them go. I knew it was silly, but I’d convinced myself that if they were gone, so were the memories of my family and homeland of Ireland.  

 

Sir William and his wife, Bea, coaxed their children out of their hiding place. Clinging close to their mother, they cautiously edged out from inside the bag. There must have been over fifty adorable little babies. Sir William and Duchess Beatrice introduced each and every baby bookworm. Once the children felt safe and comfortable around me, they all began to speak in the sweetest little voices. As I sat still on the floor, the children began climbing me like mountain hikers. Many of the babies ended up sitting on my shoulders while others perched atop my head!  

 

Mrs. Wallagundus, do you recall the story about the day I left my family and homeland, and the gift from Anton the old hermit? Those first days aboard the Adriatic were filled with dreadful loneliness. Oddly enough, by embracing that embroidered bag and its unique contents, I found a sense of peace and a connection to my family and homeland.   

 As I pondered this, Billy said, "That bag you hold so dear is much more than a keepsake. It contains the wisdom of generations, passed down through time. The Baby Bookworms you see are ancient, each telling a story, each holding a lesson. Our mission is to help you uncover these secrets, to share the knowledge with the world."  

 

Bea added, "We are here to guide you, to teach you how to understand and unlock the stories within. Together, we can ensure that the wisdom of the ages is not lost but shared with those who seek it."  

 

For over ten years, I was unaware of what could have been important enough to compel Anton to venture out of the forest after nearly twenty-five years of isolation. The true contents of the embroidered bag remained a mystery until now. It was at this time that I finally began to understand why I was chosen for this immense honor as a true descendant of The Guardian Anton.  

 

As the protector of the only Bookworm family in the world, I needed to learn as much as I could about their care. Sir William and Bea explained everything to me. My first question was, “Why hadn’t they come out before now? Didn’t they like New York?”  

 

Billy's eyes sparkled as he began speaking, “Bea and I remained dormant for many years until you brought us here to Piopolis. Our hibernation ended when you and your students began feeding us in your little schoolhouse.”     

                                                                                        

“Feeding you?” I questioned in a puzzled tone.  

 

“Do you recall what Guardian Anton told you?” He paused for a moment then continued.  

 

“I’m sure you questioned the phrase, 'There is Life through Knowledge.'! My dear, Bookworms only eat KNOWLEDGE!”  He continued, "Your teachings and stories nourished us and brought Bea and myself out of hibernation. As your students started to read, our eggs began to hatch, and our newest Bookworm family reemerged.” Billy lifted a handful of babies, then continued to explain.  "Bookworms have an insatiable appetite for knowledge. Throughout the centuries, the Guardians have depended on humans, like yourself and your students, to ensure we are well-fed with the wealth of knowledge read to us.”   

 

Beatrice beamed with pride as Billy spoke, cradling her youngest babies close to her heart. She then chimed in, offering a greater understanding of how Bookworms differ from humans. “The reason you have not seen us until tonight is because we are nocturnal. We seek nourishment and sleep while the sun is up and awaken to play in the moonlight. We are also different because we are all able to lay eggs, but only my eggs are fertile enough to create new life.  Unlike you humans our life never ends. If we are not fed enough knowledge to nourish us, we may go into a state of Bookworm hibernation.  We will awaken when we are fed knowledge again. 

 

The job of Guardian would be impossible without the help of many other caretakers. Billy and I encourage you to find new parents willing and able to adopt one of our Baby Bookworms. As the Guardian you must ensure that each adoptive parent shows a willingness to love and have the ability to feed their child daily. The magic will be evident as each Baby Bookworm begins to grow through knowledge.  

 

I stayed up all evening on that cold autumn night, getting to know and love my new family, the family that had mysteriously followed me from my homeland of Ireland.  

 

Two days later, as my students excitedly burst into class sharing stories of their snow holiday, I found it hard to contain myself. My first concern was how I could tell them about my magical night without them thinking I was daft! The second concern was how to protect my new family. The last concern was how in the world I would ever be able to feed so many babies!   

 

Every concern was immediately put to rest as soon as the children heard the story of that cold October night. My wonderful students didn’t hesitate to get to work and start feeding our new family.  

 

 

They thought their reading was just benefiting the bookworms. The most surprising by-product of all their hard work was how amazingly intelligent they became. Abraham turned out to be the President of the United States, Orville and his brother created a flying machine, and Samuel authored some of my favorite tales!  

 

The Bookworms thrived on the knowledge we provided, and in return, they inspired and nurtured our intellectual growth. The little schoolhouse in Piopolis became a beacon of learning and imagination, a place where dreams were born and nurtured.  

 

Years later, as I look back on those days, I am filled with gratitude and wonder. The embroidered bag from Anton, the old hermit, had indeed changed my life and the lives of many others. It reminded me that there is life through knowledge, a truth that continues to guide me to this day.  

 

The Bookworm family was to remain in my loving care until the new Guardian was revealed.  Mrs. Wallagundus as a direct descendant of Anton, I now pass the grand honor of “Guardian of Knowledge and Life” on to you.  May their presence be a constant reminder of the magic and wonder that knowledge brings.  

 

Sincerely and with great gratitude and love,  

 

Miss Margaret O’Shea

 

  

By the final pages of the letter the children had gone from a fever pitch of excitement to sitting speechless, eyes wide and mouths gaping open in total awe and disbelief. Mrs. Icenogle finished reading and said, “Wow! I am truly speechless! I have never read anything in my life that was as astonishing and moving as Miss O’Shea’s letter.” She paused just long enough to regain her composure, and then continued. “Boys and girls, as utterly surprising as the original letter from Miss O’Shea was, it was not the only letter hidden inside the small chest!