Fantasy – Nicanor Abbott

A Wizard of Earthsea—from the Afterword

At first I was tempted to apologize for the number of times I have written about Ursula K. LeGuin. You may think “he’s obsessed!” Or “it’s a sickness!”

Perhaps you’re right.

My “to read” stack is deep; it includes Toole and Saramago, Corey and Saenz, Kingsolver and Russell and Munro and Gaiman. And that’s just the fiction. So why LeGuin? Well, that’s the job—the purpose—of these posts, isn’t it?

In the Afterword to A Wizard of Earthsea she writes “War as a moral metaphor is limited, limiting, and dangerous. By reducing the choices of action to “a war against” whatever-it-is, you divide the world into Me or Us (good) and Them or It (bad) and reduce the ethical complexity and moral richness of our life to Yes/No, On/Off. This is puerile, misleading, and degrading. In stories, it evades any solution but violence and offers the reader mere infantile reassurance. All too often the heroes of such fantasies behave exactly as the villains do, acting with mindless violence, but the hero is on the “right” side and therefore will win. Right makes might. Or does might make right?”

As a writer, I am finding many of my fundamental answers with her. The manuscript I am currently writing includes many wars; my editor suggested I change the title because of my frequent use of the word. The manuscript waiting in the wings takes place during a single war. I want war to be a context in these books, but not the obsession. In at least one of them, and I think likely in both, the binaries of right/wrong, on/off, yes/no must necessarily collapse. Like Ged, the characters cannot learn or grow without doing away with, or at least severely questioning, dichotomies.

It doesn’t hurt that one of my current employees has been pestering me to finish the book so we can discuss it. He is very excited. Now I am excited as well.

Fundamental to my discipline is the principle that writing is a mode of thinking, not just the demonstration of thought. When Neil Gaiman admitted in 2014 that as a young writer, he could not copy LeGuin, I wonder if the challenge at the time was that he couldn’t think like her? And therefore if the above is true, and my goal is to think like her, I’d better be soaking up everything she wrote.

Of course, this isn’t to say I have no problems with A Wizard. It’s more narrative than I prefer, and I generally dislike moments when the author warns that the story at hand is not the same as another story you might rather have, or will possibly get later. Gaiman does this in Stardust, as I recall, and the convention is definitely used in the film adaptation. It’s just not a thing I like; throw me into the deep end, please, and trust me to swim. No doubt my editor will remind me of these words later—come to think of it, they may be her words from a conversation we shared two weeks ago.

So is he obsessed? Is it a sickness? Sure. Why not. When it is time for me to finish The Sparrow and A Confederacy of Dunces, then I will. But right now we live with a daily reminder that false dilemmas and a tendency to violence-first are alive and well in the minds of everyone from autocrats to academy award winners. For the sake of my writing, I needed something different. So here I am, getting ready to start The Tombs of Atuan … but if the sea changes, as it does, I’m sure it will also spend time in the stack.

Hide and Seek

Mel raced the wind, which picked up speed every second. He neared his goal, a little stone ruin—the remnants of a spring house—at the far edge of the cornfield. Behind him came shouts of warning, a girl’s scream. He pelted through the doorway, his lungs on fire.

Crouched in the most shadowy corner behind some grayed roof planks, he strained to listen. They could come at any moment. Cornstalks whispered and shushed when brushed against. Someone running would gasp for breath. Coughs. Whispers, should there be more than one pursuer.

But the wind worked against him. It drowned the sounds in a gray roar that matched the amassing clouds. Distant thunder rumbled.

He peeked through a broken window. No one. An ocean of cornstalks whipping in the wind. The sky a sickly green. Scattered droplets of rain turned into a deluge. Thunder rolled and fingers of lightning flashed. He counted the seconds between flash and boom, to estimate distance.

“One… Two…” he whispered.

Boom!

“One…”

BOOM!!

Then roared the sound of a freight train.

He grabbed a loose plank, pulled it toward him, and laid flat down. The sky roiled in angry black and sickly green. The world screamed.

When he awoke, the roofing that had given Mel shelter had fallen and swept everything against the wall. He crawled out on his belly, rusty roofing spikes scratched his back, butt, and thighs. He winced as he emerged, eyes blinking in the light.

One of the ruin walls had fallen in—he thanked the Maker he hadn’t been on that side of the spring house. The sky was blue, cloudless. Birds chirped in the border trees. He stepped back through the doorway. The corn had been swept flat.

“Who’re you?” asked a boy. Mel spun around to see someone who looked very much like himself peeking out from around the corner.

“Mel,” he coughed. “Who’re you?”

“Burt. You new?” the boy continued to eye him warily.

“No. You?”

“No. I lived her all my life.” Burt adjusted his Pirates ballcap and scowled at the sky. Finally he shrugged. “You wanna play hide and seek? We already got a game going.”

“That’s what I was doing,” Mel explained. “These ruins are great, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Burt agreed. “Best hiding place in the world.”

They hid there among the ruins, crouched below the window, until a third person—an older girl in a pair of overalls—peeked in and surprised them.

She swatted her hand downward through the window, slapping Bert on the head.

“Found you!” she yelled, then she turned and raced back through the corn.

“Bert’s it! Bert’s it!” she screamed.

The boys started back through the field. The Bert turned, a sly look on his face, and tagged Mel’s shoulder.

“You’re it!” he yelled and tore off between the rows.

Mel gave chase, back over the hill to the little dell with the big chestnut tree—home base. He ran as hard as he could, but the going became harder as he went. He broke into the clearing to find a group of eight kids gathered around the tree.

“Mel’s it! Mel’s it!” Bert yelled as he tagged the tree.

“Who’s Mel?” an older version of Bert asked.

“Him,” Bert pointed Mel’s way.

“Idiot,” said the older boy, slapping Bert in the head.

Poor Burt, Mel thought. The boy rubbed his scalp.

The older boy and the girl who had tagged Bert “it” approached him—not in the happy sprint of kids at play, but in the slow walk of those who had been chastened, or forced home at the end of the day.

“We’re sorry, sir,” the boy began.

“For what?” Mel asked. He coughed again. Paused. His voice sounded lower. Older.

The two children exchanged nervous glances.

“For Burt… bothering you,” the girl said.

“It was no bother. I’m glad to finally—” Mel waved, then stopped. His hands were wrinkled and liver-spotted.

He looked to the pair. Burt. The others. The tree. Then back at his hand.

“I need to sit.” He sat with his back against the chestnut.

It came to pass, just as Mel suspected it would, that somehow he had been gone over seventy years.

“They still talk about the tornado as if it happened yesterday,” explained Allen, Burt’s older brother.

“It made the state news,” added another pudgy boy with a sheepish expression. “Especially because of the death toll—I mean, all the kids. everyone who died was a kid. My gram says she prays every day for those kids, and thanks heaven she got grounded for kissing Billy Blankenship the night before, or she might’ve been out there too—”

“Billy Blankenship?” Mel paused. “Your gram? Is her name Franny Dormont?”

“It was,” the boy seemed astonished. “But then she got married to Gramps, and now its Platt.”

“Platt, as in Mikey Platt?”

“No, sir. Marcus Platt. His little brother Mikey—my great uncle—died in the storm. He and two brothers who tried to outrun it.”

“—my guess is the boys who tried to run were the Farrelly brothers,” Mel said with a wistful smile. Gary and Greg were only a year apart. Daredevils. The bravest of their gang.

“A couple others were killed where they hid,” said the girl, whose name was Jolene. “The twister came right down the tree line, where all the kids were hiding. They still say the ridge and the spring house are haunted.”

“That’s why I hid there,” said Bert. “They’d never come looking—except for Jo, since she’s fearless.” Bert clearly adored the older girl.

“Funny,” said Mel. “I thought the same thing that day—they’d never come looking over there. Not that it was haunted, though I guess I must be the first ghost you’ve ever met.”

“But you can’t be dead,” Bert argued. “I mean, if you’re dead, we’re all in trouble.”

“Seeing as how we can see you,” added Allen.

The other kids agreed.

“But what happened to Jeannie Anne? The little girl who was playing with us that day?” Mel asked.

Allen smiled. “She’s my grandma. Bert’s and Jolene’s, too. And she married Billy Blankenship.”

“She did? Why that rascal. I oughtta –” He stopped at the sight of the kids’ expressions.

“He passed on in 1997,” Allen said. “Heart attack.”

“And Jeannie Anne?” Mel asked, a hint of fear in his voice.

Allen smiled. “She’s still living in the same house her parents lived in.”

“Is she really?” He remembered the sounds and smells of that kitchen, especially on Sundays and holidays.

“She is.” Then Bert paused and studied Mel’s face. “You’re great uncle Melvin, aren’t you?”

Mel nodded.

The other children looked very serious. “She talks about you. They never found you. Great Gram — she never got over you.”

“Bert,” hissed Jolene.

“Well, that’s what Gram says,” Bert protested. “Never got over him, and died a year later. Left Gram and Great Grandpa alone in that house.”

Mel stared down at the dirt. A small beetle crawled alongside his foot. A slight shift, and he could crush it.

“So you’re coming home with us,” Jolene declared. “You’re living history. It’ll be a sensation. Our own ‘boy who lived!'”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Allen said. “Jolene spends too much time reading.”

“Oh, reading’s not such a bad thing,” she insisted. Mel agreed.

“But they’ll want to interview you, for sure,” Allen said. “Find out where you’ve been. Maybe even put you on the news. Meet the governor.”

“Or the president!” A little girl who had played with them exclaimed. “I’d love to see the First Lady.”

“And make a movie about you!” said Bert excitedly. “You’ll be famous!”

Mel smiled at the children’s excitement, then shook his head.

“When I left that day,” he said. “I really wanted to hide. I never wanted to be it, and I never wanted to be found.”

“What are you saying?” Jolene asked, not bothering to hide her frown. “You’re not coming home with us?”

“I don’t think it would be wise.” Mel watched the corn sway in the summer breeze. The town lay just over the hill. he wondered what Main Street would look like. If Corner General and the old school yard had changed much. But where would he even begin rebuilding a life that never really was.

“That’s not true,” Jo protested. “Gram would love to see you! You’re her brother!”

The other kids steadfastly agreed that Mel should go home with Allen, Jolene, and Bert, and accept the fame that was coming to him.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Mel. “We’ll make a deal. I want to visit the spring house one more time. Just once, and by myself. If I return, I’ll come home with you. Okay?”

“We’ll come with you,” Bert said quickly, but Mel shook his head.

“This is a game of Hide and Seek for one. Of course, if I come back, we’ll have a lot more time together. But think: everyone who loved me is gone, or has already mourned me and gone on with life. Would it be fair to dredge up the past on them, show up so late in the game? I don’t think so.”

“But we’ll miss you,” said Jolene.

“My dear,” said Mel, “take a lesson from Franny Dormont Platt, and don’t be so free with your heart. It’s easily broken.”

And the kids watched as he stood up, stiffly, and trudged his way toward the corn.

“We’ll wait for you!” called Bert.

Mel looked at the sky.

“Not past sundown. If I’m coming back, you’ll know by then. And if you’re late getting home, there’ll be hell to pay with your folks, I’m sure. Especially if they’re anything like my sister—like my parents.”

He paused once more.

“Besides,” he added, “you play here often, right? Whose to say I won’t be waiting at the spring house? Maybe even my old self—my young self—waiting for a game of Hide and Seek?”

Then he gave them a smile, and vanished between the rows.

The Box (Sick of Moving Variant)

AN: Hello readers: Sorry it’s been a while. The theme of the last three pieces–moving, is the tipoff. This is my last “moving” story for a while. I should be back to my regular writing schedule as of this week.

*****

“Sam!”

Toby eyed the box. Nondescript. Unlabeled, unmarred by packing tape or Sharpie. It wasn’t his. He was pretty certain it wasn’t his husband’s either.

“What?” Sam’s shout came from downstairs. He had been ensconced in the kitchen, unpacking ‘the most vital room in any house, according to Hart family ancestral tradition, thank you very much.’ That ancestral tradition Sam so espoused also meant that socks were folded, not knotted or rolled into an elastic-destroying ball, the windows were washed as part of the weekly cleaning, hyacinths were planted by the front door, and the Christmas tree went up on November twenty-sixth and came down on January seventh, hell or high water.

All this amused Toby, who left the socks in a pile on the bed, killed flowers by looking at them, and hadn’t celebrated his birthday since he was a kid. Christmas? What was Christmas? Well, it hadn’t been much before Sam.

His husband appeared in the doorway.

“Toby, love, we can’t have hot cocoa and snuggle by the fire until I find the hot cocoa. And I can’t find the hot cocoa if I’m standing up here worried because you called for me once then ignored all three of my replies.”

“Is that box yours?” Toby pointed.

“No. I don’t remember packing anything like that at all.” He picked it up. It was neither large nor heavy, about the size of a liquor box, but wasn’t exactly light either. It felt solid, more like a block than a container. He lifted the flap to see its contents.

“Wait!” Toby grabbed Sam’s arm.

“For what?”

“I just…” Toby took the box from him and set it on the bed. “I don’t think we should open it.”

“It’s hardly closed, honey.” Sam moved the flap as if it were a mouth and spoke in a high-pitched voice. “Open me, Toby! Open me!”

“What if it’s something dangerous?”

Sam laughed. “The sellers probably left it. You think Old Lady Anderson left her portable meth lab behind?”

“Stop.”

Sam pulled Toby in close.

“Crack cocaine?” He said in that same playful tone.

“You’re mean,” Toby chuckled.

“Collection of severed fingers?” Sam whispered. “The murder weapon?” Now he sounded like a bad English butler. “She killed her husband in the bedroom with the mysterious cardboard box? Very good, sir. I’ll notify the guests.”

Still laughing, Toby pulled away. “Fine!” He flipped the flaps open and peered inside.

Sam looked over his shoulder.

“What the…”

“I know,” Toby whispered. Golden light emanated from within. He flipped it shut. The two exchanged glances. Toby leaned in and kissed his husband.

“Hide it,” Sam’s voice had gone hoarse. “We’ve got to protect it. We can’t let it be found.“

“Hide it… hide…” Toby glanced around the room. “Got it.”

The box ended up in the back of the closet, under a stack of spare pillows and comforters. Later that evening, as they watched the fire crackle, the couple discussed what to do with the sunroom, whether or not a sectional would work in the old house, and the success of a clean and organized kitchen. The box never entered the conversation; in truth, both men had forgotten about it completely.

*****

Sam found the box as he cleaned out the guest room closet.

“Toby?” He called out, then stopped. Sat on the bed. Cried again. Toby was everywhere in their house. Sam found it both comforting and stifling. Toby hadn’t believed in much, but after the diagnosis, warned Sam that if he didn’t move on, there would be a haunting until he did.

The box was unmarked, vaguely familiar. Sam flipped the lid up, peered inside, and smiled.

“Oh,” he said as a gust of wind blew snow into his face. He smelled peppermint. “There you are.” The light inside twinkled. A familiar face beamed up at him. A rainbow scarf flapped as he pulled his hat lower. The figure motioned for Sam to join him.

Sam considered it.

The figure waved him in.

“I’d love to, honey. Really. But you also told me to live.”

The Toby-in-the-box encouraged him to enter.

“I wish I could. But it’s not time, is it?”

Toby-in-the-box offered a familiar look of frustration, then shrugged and turned. Beyond him, seated on a bench, was Old Lady Anderson, clutching her husband’s hand. Sam cut off the jingle of sleigh bells when he closed the flaps.

“Keep it hidden,” Sam whispered. He put the box back in the closet, then pulled out everything else to pack or sell.

*****

”Mom!” Kendra called. “Is this yours?”

She opened the flaps on the box that sat in the middle of her room. Inside, the silver and golden glitter and the twinkle of new fallen snow gave her a much needed sense of peace. There was an ice rink full of skaters, laughing racing and yelling and twirling and spinning. A couple held hands, one in a rainbow scarf. As she watched, he held tightly to the arm of his husband. Carolers sang on the bridge, and she smelled the pine.

Of course they are, she thought. How could they not be husbands.

“Is what mine?” her mother appeared in the doorway. Kendra closed the flaps quickly.

“Nothing,” Kendra said. “I didn’t recognize a box at first, but now I do. Sorry.”

Candace surveyed the room. The headboard and desk were scratched and chipped, a precious gift from their congregation. Kendra’s personal belongings filled three boxes taken from the shabby wine and spirits shop down from the charred ruin that had been home.

Whatever was in the box, Kendra would tell her in time. She hugged her daughter.

“You okay?”

Kendra nodded.

“We’ll replace what we can in time. It’s just gonna be tight for a while.”

Candace felt the wetness of tears against her chest.

“I need to show you,” Kendra said, pulling away and picking the box off the desk.

“You sure?”

She nodded, and showed her mother the secret.

“You gotta keep it safe,” Candace said, “but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look. Not if it gives you peace.”

So Kendra put the box in her closet, and added it to her calendar as a Tuesday night weekly event, so she would always remember to look. The old couple, the husbands, and a thousand other people lived in that box, and when she finally left home, she took it with her.

Behind the Falls

He stepped out from behind the falls, almost directly into the path of a young couple. All three froze: two bucks and a doe, each with matching expressions of surprise.

“Sorry… sir,” Gabi said, sure that of all possible responses, acquiescence and respect were most needed.

Before her stood a study in tweed: his robust frame was clad in a Norfolk jacket and vest adorned in droplets of clear mountain water. He slapped the matching cap against his knickerbockers. Droplets pattered the leaves of a nearby rhododendron. His high brown leather boots were scuffed. There was a tear in his jacket sleeve.

He wriggled his bushy mustache and furrowed his thick brow, clearly appraising the couple.

Then Will snorted. “Nice threads. Costume party?”

Gabi slapped his arm.

The man raised an eyebrow. “No less than Helen insisted,” he replied. “Something about Mrs. Cleveland, and then we were off to Wanamaker’s Depot. Anyway, I see you’re off for a swim. I can say with certainty that you’re on the wrong path, and dressed like that, you’ll only find trouble where you’re headed. Best to head back down to the river.”

Will looked confused. “Swim?”

The tweed man matched his expression and motioned a dive. “Swim. To submerge in a sizable body of water…”

“No,” Gabi corrected. “We’re just on a hike.”

“In your swimsuits?”

“These aren’t swimsuits. They’re our regular clothes.”

Will nudged her, trying to indicate that they should go.

“Well, now I’m confused.” The man leaned against a boulder. “Helen said the Wahnetah was a perfect retreat, and while I don’t mind liberal, this might be more liberal than I’m accustomed to.”

“The Wahnetah?” Gabi asked. “What’s the Wahnetah?”

“‘What’s the…what’s the Wahnetah?’ are you joking?”

The couple shook their heads.

“It’s the hotel. Bottom of the hill. The train pulls almost right up to it.”

Will shook his head. “Ain’t any hotel down there. And there’s no train.”

“You’re talking nonsense, boy.”

Will balled his fists. “I’m not a boy, old man. You white people…” Gabi touched his arm to calm him. He grumbled and walked away, though not too far.

“I meant no offense. I was referring to your youth. Helen’s people include a number of Abolitionists—”

Now Gabi cut him off. “Look, before you make things worse, do you want us to get you some help?”

“Well, I’m supposed to meet her for dinner tonight, but I need to… Maybe I hit my head on the way out? I’ll just rest here a moment.”

Gabi paused at the man’s confused look, the disoriented way in which he gazed at the trees and shrubbery, seemingly no longer sure of himself. He ran a hand over the boulder, then gazed at his fingertips.

“You’re sure?”

“Sure of what?”

“Help,” she said, then pulled out her phone.

“What’s that?” The old man eyed it suspiciously.

“My smartphone…” she pressed a button “… but there’s no signal up here. Damn. Will, honey, do you want to go back down the hill—”

Will was by her side in an instant. “I ain’t leaving you with him.”

“I’ll be fine… Miss? Can I call you Miss, or is that disallowed?”

“Gabi. Call me Gabi.”

“Very good, Gabi. Thank you for your kindness. And Will, my apologies for any offense. I’m Lester Bowen. Of Society Hill.”

He offered a hand. Warily, Will gave it a curt shake. Gabi was more gentle.

“So Mr. Bowen,” she said, “you were behind the falls?”

“Yes, and I suggest that if you know what’s best, you’ll avoid it at all costs.”

Will scoffed. “Avoid it? That’s one of the highlights!”

“More like a singularly unique experience in exhilaration and terror. I was lucky to escape it with my life.”

“I think you bumped your head pretty hard, Mr. Bowen,” Will watched the cascade. They were so close.

“Please, Mr. Will, for her sake…” he nodded to Gabi. “Don’t go in there.”

“You know what, Mr. Bowen? Okay.”

“What?” Gabi gasped.

“Man says there’s something terrifying inside. I seen all the films I need to know that when you meet a strange person in a strange place telling’ you don’t do a thing, you don’t do it.”

“So that’s that?” She crossed her arms.

“It’s for the best, Miss Gabi.” Bowen rubbed the bark of a trailside oak. He rubbed his fingers together after, feeling the grit of the tree.

“See? He says it’s for the best.” Will winked, almost imperceptibly. It could have been an eye twitch, but she knew better. “Let’s help him down the hill.”

Gabi acquiesced, and the trio made their way down the mountain. Along the way, they paced a trail closed sign.

“Why’s it closed?” Bowen asked.

“Long story,” Will replied.

“There’ve been a lot of accidents and a bunch of deaths up by the falls over the years,” Gabi added.

“But that’s nonsense. It’s a major attraction. The management could surely do something.”

They reached the lower trail and followed the river to the parking lot.

“See, Mr. Bowen?” Will said. “No train. No hotel.”

“But it was just here this morning! This…this is impossible.” He began shaking his head. Gabi saw the panic rising and had him sit down on a boulder and rest his head.

He was still murmuring when a jeep jostled into the nearby space.

“Everything alright?” called the driver. He wore mirrored sunglasses. Tufts of white hair peeked out from under his ball cap.

Bowen looked up at the sound of tires on gravel.

“My heavens, what is it?”

“A jeep,” Gabi said.

“A jeep? What’s that? Like an electric vehicle? A runabout? Must be delusional. It’s like none I’ve ever seen.”

The driver smiled at Bowen. “A bit overdressed for the occasion, don’t you think?”

Bowen stood up. “What? On about my wardrobe?” His temper escalated. “Is that all you people think of? Where’s the hotel? Where’s the train? Where’s my wife?!”

The driver threw a questioning glance at Gabi and Will.

“He’s looking for the Washtaw Hotel. Or the Washenaw. Or something like that, sir.” Gabi said.

“The Wahnetah?” The driver looked surprised. “It burned down in 1911.”

Bowen’s pudgy face sagged. The color ran out. “What year is it?”

Before Will or Gabi could stop him, the driver blurted it out.

“No. No, no no.” He turned around. “That’s it. I’m going back.”

“Sir,” the driver called. “That’s posted. You can’t go up there. The trail is closed.”

“Well how do you think I got down here!” he called without turning.

The man looked to the couple. “You all find him up there?”

Gabi and Will nodded.

“You know it’s illegal to go up there.”

Neither of them spoke.

“I’m gonna call this in,” he said. “I suggest you two get in your car and take the date elsewhere.”

“And leave him up there?” Gabi asked.

“Of course,” Will replied. “Dude’s crazy.”

“Dude’s crazy? What was your plan? Bring him down here to traumatize him?”

“I thought he’d snap out of it.”

The jeep driver coughed. “Well, whatever you decide, it’s going to be a matter for the Game Wardens very shortly. You two would be safer somewhere else.” He dialed his phone.

Gabi ran after Bowen.

“Are you? Awww, man!” Will ran after her.

For a man of considerable size, Mr. Bowen had gotten a good head start on the two. They ran as far as they could, shouting for him, then jogged as the route steepened. They were both winded when they found him sitting on a rock, almost exactly where they first met.

“Thank God… we found you…” Gabi gasped.

“I’ve got to go back,” he said.

“Go back?”

“Back inside.” His head tilted, as if trying to see the falls from a different way.

“You know, they were lovely when I first arrived.”

“Who?” Will leaned against a tree and stretched his legs.

“I don’t know. I suppose fair folk, though I never thought they’d be here.”

“This just keeps getting better and better,” Will groused.

“Fair folk? Like fairies?”

Bowen nodded. “Yes. It was pleasant the first few hours, but then I had to run. their decorum is strict, though in many ways far better than what we have here. But they have enemies, and those enemies gave chase.” He pulled at the tear in his coat. “I suppose I’ll be a dead man if I go back. But if it’s been more than a century, as that fellow in the runabout said, then I’m dead already.”

“But you might have family now,” Gabi argued.

“Do you think Helen would still be alive? I don’t. And we never had children of our own.“

The three stood together and listened to the roar and splash of the falls. Presently he stood.

“Well, it’s all been good,” he announced.

“Really?” Will asked.

“No,” said Bowen. “But the two of you? That’s been alright for the most part.” He reached out. This time Will shook his hand in earnest.

“Here,” Bowen said, fishing in his pocket. “It’s my wallet, proof of identification… everything I think you could use to prove that I was real. I won’t need it where I’m going.”

“You’re sure about all this?” Gabi asked.

“Yes, I think so. But I do have one question.”

“What’s that?”

“How are my Quakers doing?”

“Your what?”

“The Philadelphia Quakers. You might know them as the Phillies, though I hope the name didn’t catch on.”

Will laughed. “You’re better off not knowing a thing, Mr. Bowen.”

“Well,” Bowen laughed. “At least that’s still the same.”

Then he wandered behind the falls. Will and Gabi discussed it a little, and when he didn’t come out after five minutes, they followed him.

A week later, searchers found a bag with three wallets in the hollow of a dying oak. Officially, no sign of the missing couple was ever found.

A Feather for Thoughts

Author’s Note: One of my readers got me thinking about keeping voices distinctive. This is an old draft I revised to try and play with voice.

“Well this is a fine how-do-you-do.” Cerna picked her jagged teeth with a talon and glared into the crib.

“How-Do-I-Do what?” asked Tenga. She preened her red feathers constantly and kept a nail kit in a baggie in her purse, along with a little vial of tea tree oil. She loved the smell.

Midge joined them, preventing Cerna from having to answer.

“All set.” Her yellow slitted eyes twinkled. “The fire is lit and the bodies will—what’s that?”

Like the others, she peered into the crib, where a toddler whacked a stuffed dog with a rattle. He laughed gleefully at the sound of a hundred little beads.

“Cerna. Check the contract.” Midge cringed when the cherub squealed and reached for her. “I distinctly remember only reading two names on the list.”

A snap of fingers and the contract appeared in Cerna’s clawed hand. Tenga and Midge stood on tiptoes to look over her shoulders. Cerna mumbled, grumbled, then mumbled some more.

“Well?” Midge grew impatient, pursing her lips and scratching her scaly arms. “C’mon, Cerna. I’m starting to peel.”

“Sorry girls. We’re only supposed to take Trevor and Lydia. It doesn’t say anything about a baby.” Cerna rubbed the single great horn that sprang from the left side of her head and picked her teeth some more. A line of drool landed on her muumuu.

“Well I doubt it’s named Baby, anyway.” Tenga pointed to the wall where the child’s newly-deceased parents had hung some block letters. “See? It’s named Trevor. Well, maybe it’s named Trevor? Or maybe Daddy wanted Baby to learn his name first? Maybe Mommy and Daddy were in some kind of compet—”

“Shut up,” Cerna said.

“So what do we do?” Midge reached down for the child. Cerna slapped her hand.

“Don’t touch it! There could be a spell on it!”

“There’s no magic here!” Midge flicked her forked tongue. “The parents didn’t have any, that’s for sure.”

Cerna sniffed the air as well, searching.

“And it’s just a baby,” Tenga pouted.

“Who is part of a bureaucratic oversight,” Cerna growled. The heat was intensifying; smoke drifted into the bedroom.

“We could just eat it?” Midge licked her lips and tasted the air again.

“We can’t!” Tenga cautioned. “Remember the promise at the Council of Reeds? There’s a moratorium on eating children.”

“Promises were made to be broken.” Midge scratched more flakes from her arms.

“Not one made before the Council.” Tenga shook her head, certain of immediate consequences. “I want no part of it. It’s Baby Trevor, not Baby Tartare.”

“Well how will they ever know?” Midge flapped her arms and a cloud of dandruff puffed around her.

“How will they not is the better question,” Cerna said. “No, we’ll simply do away with the child like we did with the parents.” She swiped at the child with her spit-covered claws. Her arm bounced off an invisible barrier.

“Ow!” She grabbed her smoking hand and turned away in anguish.

“Well, that’s new.” Tenga cocked her head, curious.

“Maybe we can smother him?” Midge suggested and pushed the child down with a pillow. But Baby Trevor just giggled, even as the wall started to blacken and the smoke thickened.

“Oh, move over.” To everyone’s surprise, Tenga swept the child up in her arms. Cerna and Midge followed her to the living room.

“How did you do that?” Cerna asked.

“With my arms.”

“No, no, no. How come you picked him up when we couldn’t?”

Tenga rocked the baby against her feather-covered bosom. He held firmly to one of her claws. “Why… I don’t know. I just wanted to get him out of that room. I mean hellfire and smoke don’t bother us, but Baby Trevor might choke—”

“You want to adopt this child, don’t you?” Cerna said, and began rubbing her side-horn in earnest.

“Oh, don’t be mad, Cerna. It could be fun! We could raise him as our own. I mean it’s always done in threes, and there’s precedent, I’m sure. The fairies did it with Aurora—”

“But they were all crazy.” Midge sampled the air again. “He would taste good with garlic. I’m sure.”

“Not everything is edible, Midge.” Cerna pulled her away from the child by the back of her neck. “And Tenga, the Fey never have enough to do. That’s why they’re always in other peoples’ business.”

“How about the Fates? Didn’t they—”

“All powerful,” Midge hissed.

“And too busy for mortals,” Cerna laughed. “They’re worse than us. They don’t even see humans as human—just woven bits of thread.”

Midge reached for the child. “Well, I’m getting hungry, and I still say we eat him. Damn the Council.” But the glint in Tenga’s raptor eyes held her at bay.

“Oh, fine then,” Midge conceded. “You two figure it out. I’ll see if they have some snacks or something.” She stalked into the kitchen, clanking dishes and opening cabinets in her search.

A wail of sirens drew close.

“There’s gotta be some way we can keep him, Cerna. Please?” Tenga rocked the toddler, her feathers ruffling.

“I’m sorry, Tenga, but we can’t. None of us are prepared for parenthood; it’s not in our nature. I mean, Midge ate her last brood!”

“I know, it’s just… you know the saying ‘the one that gets away is your undoing?’”

“Uh huh.”

Midge returned with a platter bearing cups of tea and a plate of animal crackers. Tenga sat Baby Trevor on the sofa and snuggled him against her side, petting him with the back of a feathered hand.

“Well, what if this one gets away and becomes our undoing? At least if he’s in our care, we can raise him not to attack us.”

The sirens were right outside. Red, blue, and white lights lit the front yard and shone around the edges of the drapes.

Cerna sniffed her tea. “It, Tenga. Not He. It. Have you considered that if we try to raise it, we might be inviting our doom as well?”

“Sip your tea, Cerna,” Midge said. “It’s chamomile. Your favorite.”

Hammering rattled the front door. Men shouted on the other side.

“There’s not much time now.” Midge purposefully looked away from Tenga. “We can’t kill it and you won’t eat it. You’re going to have to give it up now—let it die in the fire. But I am not going to find out from the Fey how to raise a human child. I have a life, and a fabulous social circle, and a child will just cramp my style.”

Cerna rolled her eyes. “You eat your dates and expel the bones, Midge. That’s not a social circle; it’s a buffet.”

“If we take him, he’ll know where we are. He might hate us, and we’ll be as regretful as one of Midge’s dates.”

Midge looked affronted. Cerna just picked her teeth. Tenga scooped the baby back into her arms. She plucked a zebra cracker from the plate and tried to feed him; he pushed it away and yawned.

“But if we give him to the people outside, they’ll raise him and love him and care for him.”

“Maybe,” Cerna said. “The saying is true for the humans, too.”

Tenga smiled down at the child’s pink face. “But maybe there’s a way for Baby Trevor to know that we’re not letting him get away.” She leaned close and whispered something in his ear. He reached up and plucked a feather from her cheek.

A pair of firefighters burst through the door. Midge snapped her fingers and the back end of the house burst into a white fireball, forcing them back.

“That’ll hold them for a little longer.” She studied her talons. “C’mon, Tenga. I got a date tonight.”

“Poor thing,” Cerna said. Midge bared her fangs and hissed.

“Oh, please. You really think I’m scared?”

The firefighters returned. Tenga laid the boy down on the sofa. He cried out, and the men saw him. They quickly rescued him from the inferno.

Cerna patted Tenga’s feathery arm. “You did the right thing.”

Tenga ate the zebra cookie Baby Trevor had rejected. “You know,” she said. “I prefer Girl Scout cookies. Like the ones from that assignment in Muncie… and the one in Tucson… and the—”

“Yes, yes,” Cerna said. “We could relive it all again, but I still have to get this paperwork filed, and Midge has to go eat her date. Are you going to be okay?”

Tenga nodded. “I’m going to have a spa day, I think. Clavis is so talented with his tentacles…”

In the ambulance, the EMTs examined the little boy.

“What’s he got there?” one of them asked. “Looks like a feather.”

Timothy and The Timekeeper

Author’s Note: Respond to a Twitter post on Monday. Write all week. Draft and revise on Saturday. Edit on Sunday. Repeat as needed, I guess.

“Don’t forget your lunch,” Bonnie Fender reminded Timothy as he dashed through the cramped little kitchen. The bag waited in its customary place: on the edge of counter in front of the microwave. Right by the door to the garage.

“What kinda chips?” He slung his worn backpack to the floor and shoved the lunch inside.

She didn’t look up from the onion she was dicing. “Your favorite. Got your library books?”

“Yep.”

He reached for the door.

“Not in the same pocket as your lunch I hope.” Chop chop chop.

Timothy sighed in a very put-out way and moved the lunch to the bag’s outer pocket.

She smiled her usual half-grin. “Uh huh. Dad’ll pick you up at four forty-five. Front of the library. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

“And don’t talk to strangers.” Now she gestured with her knife. The smell of onion wafted his way.

“I never do.”

“I love you, Baby Boy.”

He groaned. “Love you too, Mom.” The words came by rote, like grace at suppertime, the national anthem, or the Lord’s Prayer—acts so ingrained they no longer required thought.

Timothy had fixed his father’s old Schwinn, abandoned to the junk side of the shed. When Randy saw his son’s work, he visited every pawn shop, church, and yard sale in half the county to purchase do-it-yourself manuals, car repair guides, and home improvement books. The collection gathered dust on Timothy’s little bedroom bookcase. The boy read them out of courtesy and respect, but that was as far as things got. There was never money for home repair. His Dad was lifelong friends with Joe of Joe’s Auto repair and so got the best friend discount. His Mom prohibited him from tinkering with her appliances, many of which had seen better days.

Now he bumped and rattled down the gravel road, headed toward the blacktop secondary that teed at Redshannon Road. From there he pedaled hard down the white shoulder line straight to town. Thirty minutes and five miles later—give or take—he would arrive at any one of several under-the-table jobs befitting a thirteen year old.

The Havelocks lived in one of the town’s few mansions, a leftover from timber baron days.

“It’s historically registered,” Mrs. Havelock reminded him every Monday when she set him to work on the lawn. “So be very careful as you go.” He had never met Mr. Havelock, though he had seen the beady-eyed man watching through a first floor window, and smelled the cigar smoke while he waited on the porch. They never allowed him inside.

On Tuesdays he stopped at the quaint little cottage of Miss Blum. She was young, had taught his third grade class, and loved to redecorate.

“Can you help me rearrange the living room?” she asked every few months.

He had also cleaned the basement, helped change all the window treatments, and exchanged the old second floor bedroom suite with a brand new set. It’s just as well, Timothy thought. The yard only takes thirty minutes.

Mrs. Grantham had him weed the prize flowerbeds that surrounded their split-level. Mr. Grantham gave him run of the weed-eater.

“She don’t complain when you do it,” he confided to Timothy and gave him an extra ten. That was Wednesdays.

And old Mr. Schwartz wanted his grass cut every Thursday. All two and a half acres. With a pushmower. “Gotta build those muscles for Junior Varsity baseball,” he insisted. “That’s what I did when I was your age.”

Timothy didn’t think it wise to suggest he had no interest in sports.

But if the purpose for his Schwinn was freedom, his labor had purpose beyond Friday ice cream money and college savings as well. He had stumbled upon a problem, and his clients were just four of a community of test subjects.

Mrs. Havelock wore a dainty watch with shiny stones in the bezel.

“It’s a lovely watch.” He only glanced up for a moment as she inspected his weeding-in-progress.

“Why thank you, Timothy. I bought it from The Timekeeper over on Main Street.”

“I should stop by there. Mom’s birthday is coming up and…”

Mrs. Havelock’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I’m sorry, Timothy. Where?”

“The Timekeeper?”

She touched her cheek and stared at the house. “Now, I don’t believe I’ve heard of that place.”

The same thing happened with all of his clients. Miss Blum had purchased a mantel clock there, but couldn’t name the place a moment later. Mrs. Grantham’s grandfather clock filled the living room with ticks and chimes, but when she wasn’t looking directly at it, she couldn’t name the seller either. Even Mr. Schwartz, who prided himself on remembering the worst rosters of his beloved Pittsburgh Pirates, could not remember where he had gotten his watch fixed. That seemed truly bizarre to Timothy, because Schwartz loved to tap his finger on it, a non-verbal warning that time was a-wasting.

“Mom,” he asked one evening at dinner. “Have you ever heard of The Timekeeper?”

“The who?” she shoveled another helping of mashed potato on to her plate.

“It’s a watchmaker. On Main Street.”

She shook her head.

“There’s no watchmaker on Main.”

“Timekeeper,” Timothy corrected. “Just before the turn. The shop backs up on Redshannon Creek.”

Randy stared dubiously. “Are you on… drugs?” he whispered the last word. Bonnie stopped eating, her meatloaf hanging from her fork.

“No,” Timothy insisted. His parents laughed.

“Well, that’s a relief,” his Mom said between chews. His dad motioned for the last of the green beans. Timothy watched the minute hand of their plastic wall clock and puzzled. Through his job, his parents, the public librarians, his teachers, and even a few random strangers, he had made a discovery: most folks had been to The Timekeeper, but no one remembered it.

With Mr. Schwartz’s yard complete, Timothy rode down to the shop no one recalled. He chained his bike to a light post and walked in. At once, three clocks chimed the hour. He checked his watch.

They were all wrong.

“Be out in a moment,” came a lighthearted voice from behind a faded beige curtain.

The shop was clean, at least by Miss Blum’s standards. A set of glass lantern and carriage clocks had been displayed on a linen covered table by the window. Their insides whirred and tinked along in a steady rhythm. Grandfather and other longbox clocks attended like wooden soldiers awaiting inspection against the adjacent wall. Opposite, the owner had placed a set of shelves where other antique and mantel clocks formed a ticking skyline of wood, ebony, gold, and silver. The smaller clocks lived on the ends, while a mahogany carriage clock took pride of place. Above the shelves, the wall had been crowded in white or silver-faced pendulum clocks and cuckoo clocks painted with colorful trees and birds, their characters emerging from alpine-scene windows. They hung high and low, and everything, Timothy noted, was free of dust.

He approached the glass case along the back wall. It too was clean, and pocket watches in gold and dark wood lay in satin bedding beside silver ones that revealed their inner workings. There were men’s watches with leather bands and gold faces; women’s watches like Mrs. Havelock’s but even fancier. Timepieces on silver chains. Everything ticked along in comforting certainty, but none of the times were right.

“Hello!”

Timothy startled.

“So sorry,” said the man. And Timothy thought he looks faded. The shopkeeper was elderly, rumpled, and had thrown an old grey cardigan over a white dress shirt, half untucked. Like Einstein or Twain had been dunked in the creek and tumbled through the dryer. But this bushy old man wore silver framed spectacles as well, and carried a gnarled walking stick.

“It’s ok,” Timothy said and stopped. “I was looking for a present… for… my mom.” Dumb. Why didn’t you plan this out?

“Oh? Very good. Now, your name, sir?”

“Timothy.”

“Remarkable. That’s my name as well.” The old man adjusted his sliding glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

He doesn’t have the tired eyes of some older folks, Timothy noticed.

“So that we can tell each other apart, why don’t you be Timothy, and I’ll be Old Tim?”

Despite himself, Timothy smiled. “That sounds good.”

“Yes, yes, it does,” Old Tim agreed. “Now how much are you willing to spend on your mother?”

The color drained from Timothy’s face. “I… I only have twelve dollars.”

Old Tim clucked in dismay. “Well that’s just not enough for anything I’ve got in my store. Perhaps you’d come back later? Bring your father with you?” He motioned Timothy toward the door.

“W-wait!” Timothy balled his fists at his sides. Now or never. “Old Tim. Sir.”

“Mm?” Old Tim looked down his nose at the boy.

Timothy was certain those steely eyes were not the eyes of an old man, and that the shopkeeper could read his mind. He sighed. No way out but through. Just like school.

“This isn’t really about my mother. You see…” And he told Old Tim about his findings. The shopkeeper twitched his mustache and adjust his glasses several times as Timothy explained Miss Blum’s mantel clock and Mr. Schwartz’s wristwatch. The man pulled up a metal stool that screeched as he dragged it across the wood floor and leaned in as Timothy presented more evidence. Mrs. Grantham’s grandfather clock. Jenny the reference librarian, who couldn’t even tell him where the store was, even with the Internet. Mrs. Havelock’s glittering watch and his parents’ inexplicable ignorance.

“…and that’s when I finally decided to seek you out. To get the truth—“ He cut himself off, aware that he had been flapping his arms and pacing, and now Old Tim sat motionless still staring down his nose, not even a twitch of his mustache to reveal his thoughts.

“Please don’t kill me.” Timothy closed his eyes and scrunched his shoulders, waiting for the inevitable deathblow. Dummy. Stupidest last words ever.

Nothing.

He slowly opened his eyes. Old Tim still hadn’t moved.

“Sir?”

Old Tim’s face sagged. Not much, but enough that Timothy noticed. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to forget everything you just shared?”

Timothy shook his head. “I’ve tried. But it’s like when I see a machine that needs fixing, or a task that needs doing, or a book that needs reading. It just gets in there.”

“So you really want the truth?” Old Tim crossed his arms.

“Will it hurt? Will you have to kill me?” Timothy shied back a step.

Old Tim smiled and tapped his fingers on the glass case. “Most truth hurts, young man. But if this bit kills you, it won’t be because of me.”

Timothy’s shoulders relaxed. “Okay then. I want the truth.”

“And you shall have it.” Old Tim thumped his walking stick and wriggled his mustache. “First, you should know that while I am—or was—a watchmaker, I am now also a Timekeeper.”

“Timekeeper? Like your store name?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Or like in gym class?”

Old Tim laughed in a surprisingly high wheeze. “Both. Kind of. When it comes to time there are lords and masters, paladins and conquerors. All manner of being with a host of agendas.”

“So which are you?” Tim searched the old man for a badge of status, but he wasn’t even wearing a watch.

The Timekeeper waved his cane. “None of those. I’m just me. I do a job, just like your folks. Just like everybody else in town.”

“You know we have high unemployment,” Timothy observed. “I read in the paper—”

“You’re a bright lad, but my goodness. Unemployment doesn’t mean you don’t have a job.” Old Tim pretended to wave the idea away. “It means you don’t have a job that makes money. There’s a difference.”

Timothy scratched his stubbly head.

“Will you walk with me?” He motioned for the boy to follow him behind the counter and through the faded curtain. Timothy looked wary; Old Tim sensed the cause. “I’ll go first. You’re younger, faster, and if you feel threatened at any point, you will be able to run away easily. Alright?”

Timothy stared in wonder at the back room. It was cluttered with clocks, trays of gears and pins and wheels of every conceivable size and type. Delicate paper thin tin and wood wheels. Gold and silver ones. Crystals, jewel pins, and bezels. Cases of wood and precious metal large and small. Little chains and clasps. Tools cluttered the long workbench. He paused at the latest project—a golden pocket watch. “Could you teach me?”

Old Tim paused to look back. “To be a Timekeeper?”

“To be a watchmaker?”

“Oh, that? That’s easy. We’ll see.”

A battered plank door of very old greyed wood hung on the far wall. Old Tim grabbed a flashlight from a hook and opened it.

“After me, right? It’s a long way down, so let me know if you change your mind.” He stepped into the gloom. Timothy followed.

As they walked, it occurred to Timothy that he had broken his mother’s rule about talking to strangers, and worse, nobody knew where he was. But Old Tim still hadn’t seemed like a threat. Well, like much of one.

“The town dates back to the late seventeen hundreds, but this post had been established long before…”

In fact, he seemed to know a lot about the history and geography of the area, which Timothy found intriguing.

“…which means ‘red wise river’… the locals believed there was knowledge to be found here in the water, but depending on how the sun hit it, it glowed red, and that made folks nervous. Well, rightfully so, I guess, it wasn’t the creek alone glowing red…”

“How much further?” Timothy noticed that the walls of the passage were damp. He stepped carefully, and wondered how it was that Old Tim hadn’t taken a tumble already. Maybe he has, but who would help him?

“Only a little.” Old Tim had kept a good pace, and Timothy soon found his eyesight had adjusted.

“Wait. Is it just me, or is there light ahead?”

“There’s light, unfortunately.” They reached a level place, and Old Tim now flashed his light on another plank door, this one more worn and rotted than the first. Light glowed around its battered edges.

“You ready?” Old Tim asked.

Timothy nodded. Took a deep breath. Heat came from the other side as well.

Old Tim led him into a vaulted, torchlit chamber. In the center sat a metal lid five feet across. It had no handles, only the mechanism of a clock—what looked like a largish pocket watch—embedded in the center.

“What is it?” Timothy asked.

“A doorway to Hell,” Old Tim said. “And this here,” he rested his hand on a lever in the stone, “is a way to route the Redshannon Creek directly into this room.”

“You’re kidding.” Timothy was awestruck. He stepped toward the lid.

“Sadly not,” The Timekeeper said. “Let me show you.”

He motioned to a small door on the lid. They both got on their knees, and the Timekeeper slid it back to reveal a crystal viewportal into the abyss. The bezel had been etched with runes and symbols, but they were secondary to Timothy. He was entranced by the spirals of light and heat, and by the creatures that flapped and rode the updrafts in the flaming depths. Forms crawled and slithered around the rocky crags. Something hurled itself against the portal. Leathery wings blocked the view.

“That’s enough.” The Timekeeper slid the door shut.

“The characters—Chinese? Runes?”

He patted the boy’s shoulder. “A little of everything. The collected knowledge of the world exists across time, so to make the best seal, you need to access everywhere.”

They trudged back up the tunnel; Timothy felt weightier with his newfound knowledge. Like he was more substantial for knowing. Like there was more to him than before.

“So you don’t want anybody to know the portal is here? Is that why they don’t know about the shop?”

Old Tim had given Timothy the light and told him to lead so that he could run if he chose, but that didn’t seem to stop the shopkeeper from matching the boy’s pace.

“Partly,” he said. “But the strength of people is people. So a little more knowledge across a little more time across a few more people, and it becomes harder for anything to break through.”

“So what you’re saying is the more we connect, the more we protect?”

Old Tim laughed. “You are a worthy apprentice, my boy.”

When they returned to the showroom, Timothy asked again if he could learn to be a watchmaker.

“And maybe a Timekeeper, too?”

The old man nodded. “Let me see your watch.”

“I’m not wearing one.”

“Oh!” he opened the case. “Then take this one. I have some protections in place, but when it’s time for you to return, you’ll know it.”

“But I don’t have the money—“

“A gift, then. For an exceptional day with an exceptional young man. If your folks are worried, you can say it was for helping me clean my shop.” He set the time on the watch and handed it to the boy.

“Thank you,” Timothy said. “But I’m curious about something else. Why are all of your clocks set to the wrong times?”

Old Tim tapped his temple. “Oh, they’re all the right times. Just not the right places. More connections…”

Timothy grinned. “I get it. Connections with people across time and place.”

Old Tim motioned him to the door. “Have a great day, Timothy.”

The boy waved. “I’ll be back on Monday!”

The old man smiled as the boy unlocked his bike and rode away, then turned his sign so that “We’re Closed” faced outward. He would become someone new tomorrow. Someone drastically different. Perhaps he would become a woman. Or change his skin color. The shop would have to disappear of course. A drop of illusion and a dollop of man’s natural tendencies would solve that problem.

As for Timothy, the Timekeeper chuckled his wheezy chuckle. The boy was powerful, and might well return. But the charm would slow him down, as it did everyone else, and if the shop, the evidence, and Old Tim were gone, Timothy would have nothing but a ghost story to share. It would hurt, but both of them would be safer. All humanity would be safer, the Timekeeper thought. Better a boy with a ghost story than to face an angry mob over a gate to Hell.