“There are only so many of us, you see, and every world needs holiday gods.” The rabbit told me. His floppy ears and reserved voice reminded me more of a professor or librarian than a harvest saint. “So we each draw from lots and hats and things whenever a new world hops up. I’m a springtime candy sprite in one, and there’s another where kids stay up late on winter equinox and try to spy a snow-bunny under the moonlight, for good luck.”
“And we’ve had to keep a few grisly roles in the selection, too,” huffed a colorful swirl of pops and flames. “I get to dazzle one world with lovely shapes and colors for celebration nights all year round. Another world, there’s a coming-of-age holiday where you show off your grit by holding and holding and holding—” He puffed himself out, then fizzled back down to normal size with a thin fweeeeeeee.“—on to a firecracker just before it goes.” He swished and sizzled, angrily and sadly. “There are lots of missing fingers in that place.”
“So—” I said unevenly, suddenly relishing the feeling of the paper under my fingertips. “What can I do for you?”
The rabbit spoke again, while the creatures, auras, and people-like spirits looked sagely on. “Quite a while ago, one of us got stuck in one world and accidentally ascended to godhood, and now he’s simply too busy for his old roles. We miss him dearly–he was very kind, always a peaceful arbitrator when disagreements arose.”
(I was relieved to hear there was little animosity between godly castes.)
“Miss, you work here, surrounded by history, by ideas, by legends, icons, spirits and gods…” He swept his paws outwards, towards the shelves, his voice soft but reverent. “And the best holidays have a story behind them. Will you help us find someone new who could fit into any holiday tale?”
Before me was a great whirlwind of lines: stone-gray gridlines, heavy crimson zigzags, and grand blue inclines. As they twisted and swirled, the whirlwind became a cone, then as grids straightened and bulged outwards the cone became a great tree. Its graphpaper boughs, all climbing steadily skywards, were laden with a fruit I didn’t recognize, and through the pale green squarish leaves I accidentally stared right into the sun.
“Hello,” grumbled the tree. “I’m the economy.”
“Hello, sir.” I said, trying to blink dots out of my eyes. “I’m a librarian. Would you mind if I sat and talked with you?”
Leaves rustled as it chuckled. “I’ve driven many mad who got too close to me.”
I found a spot to sit by the trunk, its papery bark peeling outwards, and propped myself up among solid and shapely roots. I stared up towards the branches, squinting at the mysterious heavy shapes. It was a while before I said, “What kind of people usually visit you?”
I waited a while longer, squinting harder. It couldn’t be coins since they weren’t flat; and the leaves were bill-colored but were still leafy, so it was probably something fruit-like. Organic, at least.
“Everyone visits me, some time or another, to try and receive my bounty, my fruit. But most of them stay a ways off, and they do chores to get my fruit from someone else who has a lot.”
“Many come to see me regularly, and pray at my roots, and wish for some of my fruit to fall down by its own accord. But there are so many of them, and I cannot feed them all, so most of them are unhappy, but still come to pray.”
“Some people stare at me so hungrily, and rush to mount my canopy; they live there for a long time, gathering, shoving the others that try to ascend. Many of them fall crashing down, since they all compete for what little I can grow, and sometimes they misjudge the branches and fall by themselves, but others eventually climb down carefully and walk away satisfied.”
“Certain others study me for a long time, and suddenly say ‘Ah!’, and they plant part of my fruit and carefully nurture a little bit of me. Eventually, their little tree grows fruit they can keep to themselves or share.”
“Some of them, like you, come and talk to me, to try and understand me, and they watch and listen and they put baskets where they think my fruit will fall, but usually they’re wrong, and some get angry and leave. But they usually come back.”
The tree’s voice faded away. The leaves above me rustled again, quieter this time. They looked papery when they fluttered. With a tiny “plop” one of the mysterious fruits from far above lost its grip and fell. It bounced off a root and rolled to a stop against my shoe.
“What is this?” I asked. “It looks like… this looks just like a dinner roll.”
“My fruit seems different to everyone,” said the economy. “But it’s always something grounding. For you, you probably remember dinners at your grandparents with lots of dinner rolls, a time when food was on the way and there was nothing for a kid to worry about. But rolls aren’t enough for a meal, when you’re older. And you can have a nice day with a big pile of money, but… I haven’t met anyone yet who really seems happy with money and nothing else.
I munched on the roll, holding my notebook away from the crumbs. I did have memories like that–similar, anyway. The bread-fruit was airy and a little buttery, and tasted a bit like blueberries. I wrapped some up in notepaper for later.