TEN

Monday came far too quickly, the morning sun chasing away the last remnants of the weekend. The golden orb was just above the horizon, a fiery sphere rising into a clear blue sky. The closest thing to a cloud was the thin vapor trail left by a passing plane. Thomas rolled out of bed and wandered downstairs. A fresh note was stuck to the silver surface of the refrigerator. Thomas ignored the picture of his half-toothless younger self and read the note.

A smile spread across his face. If mom left early for work, I’ve got time home alone. He almost ran upstairs, but instead yanked opened the fridge and splashed milk over the bowl of cereal his mom had left on the table for him. He shoveled in the first bite, his thoughts turning to The Book of Sorrows.

The first chapter hadn’t been what he was expecting at all. Instead of spells or magical instructions, he’d found himself reading a myth. A story. Literally “the story of the first stories,” set in a time before people had the ability to make-believe. The idea had seemed silly at first, but there had been a time before writing, and before that, a time before language. If those things were true, and they were, then someone must have been the first to use their imagination and make things up. According to the book, that someone was a boy named Isham.

In Isham’s day, every tribe had someone who memorized the stories of their ancestors and passed them down to future generations—a Keeper of Stories. Isham’s father was the Keeper of Stories for the people of Asharia, and his father before him, for a dozen generations. Isham was next in line, but he was different. He was able to think beyond the limits of the physical world, to imagine people that didn’t exist, events and adventures that had never happened. He could shape these imaginings into stories that seemed utterly real.

What would that be like? To be the very first to manifest a new ability? What if I could fly or use my eyes like laser beams? Would people freak out, like the villagers did when Isham told his first made-up story? Probably. On the positive, Isham hadn’t been killed or exiled—at least not yet—but the chapter had ended there, after the telling of his first story.

Time to find out what happens next. Thomas dumped the rest of his cereal down the drain, sprinted upstairs, and belly-slid toward his bed. With the wooden box in his hands, he grabbed the key, ignored the shock as he grabbed the strange metal, and felt a second jolt as the lid popped open.

Adrenaline shocked through his system as he lifted the book out of the box. The picture was clear now, the lines and images unmistakable. The change was far beyond the level he could reasonably explain with dust or oily fingers.

Thomas tried to rationalize what he was seeing. Special ink? Some kind of chemical activated by changes in heat, light, or humidity? These might be plausible explanations, but his mind couldn’t quell the sense of wonder. The picture had changed. There was no doubt about it.

He glanced at the clock. 7:12. Plenty of time to read, shower, and still make it to the bus on time. He opened the book, took a quick look at the perplexing map and star chart, and flipped forward to the start of the second chapter. The graceful script pulled his eyes down the page and through the chapter. He read it twice, then flipped back to the paragraph that sent his pulse spiking.

Then entereth into Asharia a stranger, black-clad and silent. Strange he, this hooded figure; wove of darkness, a shadow amongst the shadows. With glassy visage, the stranger waiteth, seeking he the eye of one man alone; and though Isham weaveth a wondrous tale to which all the people do listen in silence, the eye of the storyteller falleth upon the curious visitor.

When the tale draweth to an end, and the people depart unto their places, Isham then turneth to seek the dark stranger, for in some wise the creature didst call unto him. In shadow, the stranger waiteth, and in shadow, speaketh he unto Isham. In words and voice most curious, the stranger doth speak, whispering soft words of wisdom and power.

Then stretcheth he forth a hand, curious of shape, gloved in cloth that shineth even in the darkness. The eyes of Isham rest upon the misshapen palm, for thereon art three crystals, each a thing of immeasurable beauty.

The first shimmereth softly; clear as winter ice, yet thereupon the colors of earth and sky shine like the lingering rays of a distant sun. Isham coveteth the first crystal, yet his eyes are drawn to the second, a fiery spire of luminous red. Curious symbols adorn the red crystal, without and within, and each gathereth light that doth burn like unto the sacred flame. Desire riseth in the breast of Isham, for the symbols call unto the depths of his mind, whispering of the power whereof the stranger didst speak.

The stranger remaineth still, silent, as Isham looketh upon the third crystal. Darker than the black-
gloved hand, it seemeth at first an ordinary stone; but behold! in the depths of the darkness a deeper light. And not one light, but many, and these unfolding like the vastness of stars in infinite space.

Isham reacheth out, for he must possess the crystals, but the gloved hand hath closed. Yea, the stranger doth speak; yet Isham listeneth not unto the instruction of the dark stranger, for his mind burneth with fire and light, and his heart desireth the crystals above all things.

The gloved hand then opens, and unto himself receiveth Isham the dark gifts. What expression lighteth the shrouded face of the curious stranger? Isham knoweth not, for the creature hath drifted like smoke into the darkness of night and is gone.

Thomas’s hands clenched and unclenched, aching to turn the page and keep reading. Who and what was the dark stranger? He took a breath, his promise to Huxley holding back the rising tide of curiosity. Bracing himself against temptation, Thomas tucked the book into the box. With a longing look at the inexplicably changing cover, he closed the lid and turned the key. It was time to get ready for school.

• • •

The rest of the day blurred past, quickly becoming Tuesday. In history class, Thomas avenged his doodle war loss, dealing Enrique a crushing defeat that nearly ended in disaster. His drawing of Principal Wainwright picking his nose in whitey-tighty underwear made Enrique laugh so hard the entire class came to a screeching halt. Thomas barely managed to hide the picture before Mr. Dilstrom arrived at Enrique’s desk. It was a dangerously close call.

At lunchtime, he saw Peggy disappearing into the small auditorium next to the cafeteria. A sign in colorful bubble-letters read Student Government Meeting, 12:15. Thomas walked past, peering into the auditorium. Jameel was inside, munching on a sandwich. He flashed a peace sign. Thomas waved back as the door swung shut.

Thomas’s thoughts turned incessantly to The Book of Sorrows. The possibility of getting home in time to read the next chapter didn’t help his concentration in the slightest. He barely made it through the day with his head attached.

When the last bell rang, Thomas rushed straight out to the bus and took a seat in the first row. It was a risky move, but he hadn’t seen Parker all day and the rest of the herd was pretty mellow when the moron in chief wasn’t around to stir them up.

“Hey, Akhil.” Thomas slid over as the wiry kid climbed on, hoping Akhil would join him.

Akhil flashed an uncertain half-smile and shuffled toward the back of the bus. The kid was proving harder to connect with than anticipated. Thomas made a mental note to step up his game and make friends with him. It wasn’t right for anyone to be treated like an outcast just because of a couple stupid bullies, much less a new kid. Not right at all.

Peggy Epelson followed a minute later, leading a pair of her girlfriends. She smiled. “Hi, Thomas.”

Thomas tried to answer, to smile back, but his face refused to react. Blood rushed to his cheeks. She was past before he could form a syllable, pressed forward by her friends to their customary seats. Thomas kicked himself and pulled out his laptop. Instead of getting his homework done, he stared blankly at the screen, his brain bouncing from Peggy to The Book of Sorrows and back again.

Before he knew it, the bus was pulling to a stop a few blocks from his house. He slid the laptop away and sprinted down the street. After unceremoniously dumping his book bag on the coffee table, he detoured through the kitchen to grab a snack. The newspaper on the table was opened to an article titled Sinner or Saint. He popped a cracker into his mouth and started reading.

The subject was Arius Strong, a billionaire who had purchased ten thousand acres of Amazon rainforest and multiple historic sites in Canada and the Western United States. The sites were to be set up as ecological preserves, but the acquisitions had been marked by controversy. The collapse of the Canadian cave was the most recent in a series of accidents on or near his new environmental preserves. Several of the incidents had been marked by violence and death.

Strong had declined to be interviewed for the piece, continuing a policy of public anonymity he’d maintained since the beginning of his meteoric rise through the business world. That policy, paired with the recurring accidents, led the author to speculate about the motives of the reclusive industrialist. Was Arius a hero for his environmental work or a villain playing at a game that only he understood?

Thomas’s curiosity was piqued, but he was ready to dive into a mystery of his own. He put the newspaper down and hustled upstairs.