I laughed along with him. My heart ballooned into extreme admiration and peace. I let out a huge sigh then turned to Jesse.
“Can I eat lunch with you tomorrow? I’ll start checking these books out today and let you know which ones I cried over because the endings were so sweet.”
“Of course. I’m going to go check out these books, but I’m really honored you opened up to me. Thank you, Nick. You’re very strong.” As he stood up to leave and unfolded his cane, he gave me a small hug before departing. I picked up the paper, the one Pointy had written on, and read the note below my book list.
Hi, Jesse. As you know, I’m Nick. After you read my book list, I have something I want to tell you. But I don’t want to tell you through writing. I want to tell you with my own words. But just know that, even though what I want to say is very scary, just know that it’s all good things about you. I’ve always been too afraid to approach you, until now. I really, really, like you. I even love you as a friend, and possibly more. But I’ve always been afraid to speak up for myself, until today. I know this is nerve-racking for you, but I swear, you won’t be disappointed in what I have to say. The reason I’m telling you this in person now is because you’ve given me hope and courage. Here I go, but whatever happens, I just want you to know that I will always love you. Even if we detest each other’s books.
Robert Kingett (he/him) really loves fiction podcasts. His favorite fiction podcast series to date is 20 Sided Stories’ Pokémon season. When he was in the third grade, he tried to start an advocacy campaign to give all senior citizens stuffed Wishbone dogs to try to better their lives. As an adult, he enjoys trying fun desserts, such as fried ice cream. He has absolutely no idea how to talk to charming bookish boys on the bus. He loves introducing friends to live lit events when they’re not working. His website is blindjournalist.wordpress.com
Old News
Gustavo Bondoni
“It just isn’t fair,” Sofía said.
“What isn’t?” her grandmother replied absently from the kitchen. She took care of her every other Saturday, while her parents worked.
“The people on the news, they want their land back.”
The sounds of cooking stopped and footsteps approached. Her grandmother glanced at the television. A noontime news program was on, transmitting live from Patagonia. “Many things in life aren’t fair. If they get their land back, what will happen to the people who live there now? A lot of people live on that land today. Rich people, poor people, some of them have nowhere else to go.”
Sofía thought about that. Grandma was always right, but something still felt wrong. “I just wish there was some way I could help.”
“There are many people who could use some help, Sofi.”
“I would help them all, if I could, Abu.”
Her grandmother looked down at her, eyes bright, but she said nothing.
On Sofía’s 12th birthday, her grandmother pulled her aside, out of sight of her parents.
“What’s up, Abu?” Sofía asked. She was pert and pretty in her brand-new yellow dress, and her mother had allowed her to dye the ends of her hair green.
Her grandmother looked at her sternly.
“If you had the power to change the world magically, what would you do?”
Sofía hesitated. There were so many things. But something she’d seen that morning on an Instagram post jumped out at her. “I would feed those little kids. You know, the ones in the camp in Italy. They can’t go back home because of the war.”
Her grandmother nodded curtly, once, and then her habitual smile returned.
The following Saturday, Abu sat her down and placed a piece of paper in front of her.
“Read it.”
Abu’s writing was nearly impossible for Sofi to decipher but she made the effort: “I, Sofía Viviani, will only use my magic to help those who truly need it.” It was puzzling. “What is this? What magic?”
“It’s a promise. You have to sign it.” Abu held out an old fountain pen, old and made of metal, not the cheap plastic used by school children. “You have to sign it with this.”
“Why?”
“Because if you sign it with this, it will become real. The pen is magical. What you write with it happens in real life.”
Sofía studied the older woman’s face, but there was no trace of humor in her expression, so she thought about it long and hard. “Give me the pen.”
Abu watched her put down her name and then shook her head when Sofi tried to hand the pen back. “No. It’s yours now. Be wise.”
Sofía didn’t help children in Italy. Not at first, anyway. She got distracted by the protestors on the news again. Tehuelche people were out on the streets of Bariloche, Argentina’s most important mountain resort town.
It was, the news reported, the largest concentration of Tehuelche people in the century and a half. She was shocked to see how few of them there were, perhaps two hundred, all told.
“It’s not right,” she said.
It took her nearly two weeks to decide to take the pen to school, and when she did, she felt ridiculous for having brought it along. She suspected it was gold, and if she lost it she would be in real trouble. And, now that she thought of it, the mere idea of a magic pen felt incredibly silly.
So the day wore on and the pen remained in her bag. At 4:03 PM, just two minutes before the bell dismissed them for the day, she pulled it out and rushed a quick sentence: Palermo Day School’s seventh graders will be on a field trip to the Museo Sarmiento tomorrow (Friday). Then she hid the sheet beneath her desk, hoping no one had seen her. When the bell rang, she forgot all about it.
Until the next day. The teachers formed them up and led them into buses. Their destination? The Museo Sarmiento, where the Tratado Chegüelcho, the first treaty between the Patagonian tribes and European settlers, was on permanent display.
Too shocked to believe it wasn’t all a coincidence, Sofía still hedged her bets. She wrote: The treaty will not be under glass, and I’ll be able to write on it without anyone seeing me.
To her shock, this, too, worked.
It wasn’t easy. Bringing herself to deface a document of priceless historic significance was nearly impossible.
But she needed the wording. She needed the names. She couldn’t build something like this herself: her attempts to do good would wreak havoc. She knew enough to know that.
The problem was that was pretty much all she knew. What would happen to the people there now? What were the native people even claiming? She was woefully uninformed.
Sofía stood before the document, smelling the ancient paper and trying to read the script. One line jumped out at her: it spoke of land to the south of a river.
Not knowing what else to do, feeling the clock ticking, scared of being discovered, nearly crying in frustration, she reached out a trembling hand and scratched out the line after that one, replacing it with: everyone involved will use the land as much as they truly need, and not more than that.
Then she ran away.
Sofía brooded on the bus ride back from the museum, ignoring her friends. Had she changed anything, or would the museum discover the vandalism and come after her?
The afternoon passed in abject terror, fear of being called to the principal’s office, expelled. Could they send a twelve-year-old to jail?
What had she been thinking?
The final recess of the afternoon found her hiding in the library, the one place where they would never look for her.
As the fifteen eternal minutes dragged, her eyes fell on the large map of South America on the wall. Strangeness penetrated the fog of her terror and she focused on it.
The familiar triangle that was Argentina was absent, replaced by three different-colored polygons. The northernmost was labelled Argentina and directly to the south was a green area, simply named the Eternal Peace Nature Reserve.
She was trying to make out the name of the southernmost portion when the bell rang.
�
�Abu,” she said the next day. “I have a question.”
“What is it?”
“Why give the pen to me? Why don’t you help people yourself?”
“Ah, so you believe in it, now?”
“I think so.”
Abu thought before speaking. “Each person has to use the pen in the way that suits them most. I was young, but unlike you, I could only see what was right in front of me. Well, maybe that’s normal: it was a time of suffering I could see first-hand, and I didn’t have the same sources of information you do. I helped our family. Not economically, but I made sure we led long, fulfilling lives . . . even if we’re poor. When I realized that the world had bigger problems, it was too late for me to channel the magic differently. Believe me, I tried.”
“I think I did something, but I’m not sure what.”
“It works that way, sometimes. What happened?”
“The Nature Reserve. Eternal Peace. I think I had something to do with that.”
“Sofi, the Reserve has been there for a century and a half. It’s one of the greatest things ever done during the colonial era, a sudden attack of humanity in a brutal time. It’s still used as an example of how things might be done when wise heads prevail.” She shook her head. “I don’t think you could have done much there.”
“And the country to the south of that?”
“Jerun? What about it?”
“Is that where the Tehuelche live now?”
Her grandmother looked confused. “Many people live there; our best friends, our greatest allies. Since the treaty, we’ve worked together to maintain the Reserve. Everyone has benefitted. You’ll learn all about it in high school. It must have been a great man who decided to add those critical words. Too bad historians can’t agree on who it was.”
“Oh.” Sofía suddenly understood how it worked, the price she would pay. Loneliness would be her lot. “I hope I can do good things like that. Using the pen, I mean.”
“Yes. That’s a good guide.” Her grandmother stroked her hair. “I knew you’d understand. That’s why I chose you.”
Sofía shivered. She understood more than her grandmother—or anyone else—would ever know.
Gustavo Bondoni (he/him) is an Argentine writer with over two hundred stories published in fourteen countries, in seven languages. His latest book is Ice Station: Death (2019). He has also published three science fiction novels: Incursion (2017), Outside (2017), and Siege (2016) and an ebook novella entitled Branch. His short fiction is collected in Off the Beaten Path (2019), Tenth Orbit and Other Faraway Places (2010), and Virtuoso and Other Stories (2011). His website is at gustavobondoni.com
Illumination
Joy Givens
Strasbourg, 1440
Summer wind, rippling across the moonlit grass, teased the two veils. Armored only with the prayerful girdle books at their waists and the penknives in their pockets, Sister Aurelia and Sister Ennelin crept away from the abbey.
The wind seemed to breathe on them, an affectionate inquiry: Daughters, what adventure draws you from your cells tonight?
Aurelia, a postulant with eyes as bright as fresh pots of ink, led the way. “Keeping this secret from you has been pure torment,” she whispered. “My heart overflows to share it.” She brandished her penknife at the darkness. “When you see what this man has wrought, your eyes shall think themselves bewitched.”
“I should hope not.” Ennelin gripped her silver crucifix as she followed. Only a few years older than Aurelia, but nearly ready to profess her vows, she was weary from the day’s work and wary of trouble. And stealing away from the abbey was more than trouble. Only her dearest companion could draw her out like this. “Child, you said this was of greatest importance—such importance that it merits secrecy even from the abbess.”
“Oh, yes.” Aurelia pressed her ink-stained fingertips together. “Please forgive my cryptic words, sister.”
Ennelin nodded, but her own forgiveness was of little consequence. If they were caught roaming Strasbourg after dark . . . even their exceptional talents with quills would not save them from disgrace.
She followed Aurelia’s gaze toward the still river. The moon upon the glassy water would afford them enough light to walk safely. “How did you happen upon this discovery?”
“Well . . . I had heard a rumor of a new invention, and after witnessing an administration of last rites at the south end of the city . . . I allowed my feet to wander on the return to the abbey.”
Ennelin smote one hand against her forehead. “Good heavens.”
“But in my wandering,” Aurelia rushed to add, “I caught a glimpse through the window of his workshop. And I saw—”
“Whose workshop?”
Aurelia trod along the riverbank, avoiding the mud. “Johannes of Mainz.”
Ennelin gasped. “The goldsmith?” she whispered fiercely. “Not he who fashioned those pilgrimage mirrors and claimed they could capture holy light? That charlatan?”
Aurelia nodded. “The same. Though—forgive my dissent, sister—I believe he was merely the metalworker, not the merchant of that scheme.”
Ennelin glared into the darkness. “And what has he to show for his labors this night—reliquaries that make gold mysteriously vanish?” Shaking her head, she turned back. “This is a fool’s errand.”
“No, it isn’t!” Aurelia laid a hand on Ennelin’s arm. “It is not foolishness, I promise. I nearly ruined two pages of calligraphy in my distraction, and I could hardly hold still through vespers tonight. If I cannot share with you the excitement that burns in my heart, I fear—oh, I fear I shall burst into flames!”
Ennelin sighed, but a faint smile softened her mouth. “Flames, child?”
Together, they moved as softly and silently as clouds along the banks of the River Ill. The workshop of the goldsmith lay not far from the abbey. Ennelin clasped Aurelia’s ink-stained hand in hers, aching from hours spent illuminating letters and illustrations in the leaves of a new Bible. Still, they walked with the bold energy of believers embarking upon a pilgrimage.
The smoke of extinguished fires, the detritus of work animals, and the blooms of oleanders all added their scents to the night wind. Even in the warmth, Ennelin took a deep breath and shivered.
Their destination, a small shop of sturdy frame and thatched roof, lay on the eastern outskirts of the city. Despite the late hour, lantern light spilled through the glass window of the goldsmith’s workshop onto the dry ground. Every other building in the borough was as dark and silent as a gravestone.
“Look inside,” Aurelia whispered, drawing Ennelin alongside her beneath the window.
Ennelin made the sign of the cross upon herself. “Mercy . . . ” She rose up on her toes and peered over the sill.
In the flickering light, Johannes of Mainz laid a small piece of paper across a frame on his workbench. He pushed a rod back and forth over it. By his side lay several mysterious metal tools. His brow furrowed as he set down the rod and stroked his long beard. Then, slowly, deliberately, he peeled back the paper from the base beneath it.
Johannes crowed with the pride of a rooster at sunrise. A small cry slipped from Ennelin’s mouth, and her hands flew to her heart.
Black lettering, sharp and clear, now shouted against the cream of the paper. That multitude of skillful, even characters would take precious time with a quill. This man had produced it in moments.
What sorcery is this?
With another victorious shout, Johannes kissed the paper, dappling his beard with black ink. Ennelin touched her own lips, still specked with lapis lazuli from licking the tip of her paintbrush to a point. “How can this be possible?”
“It is just as before,” Aurelia whispered. “He has laid all the lettering in reverse. When he coats the frame in ink and presses the paper across it . . . ”
“A facsimile.” Ennelin began to shake. She gripped Aurelia’s hand as if it kept her tethered to the earth.
On the other side of the glass, Johannes
laid the paper on the oilcloth-covered floor and placed another piece upon the frame. After repeating the miracle before their unblinking eyes, he set the paper to dry beside the first.
Ennelin dropped back onto her heels and sagged against the wall. What had this man done? What great, fearsome power had he unlocked? And from whence had it come?
“Merely think,” Aurelia murmured, her eyes glowing. “Think of how quickly words may be printed this way. Does it not burst your heart with joy? Pages multiplying upon pages, like Jesus multiplying fishes and loaves for the five thousand! Mills shall hardly be able to supply quires of paper fast enough.”
Ennelin pressed her hand to her stomach. Nausea rocked through her. The thought of this goldsmith and his compatriots reproducing pages with unnatural speed, selling indecent materials, pamphlets, perhaps even entire books . . .
“Hearken,” Aurelia gasped. “He is coming out!”
The sisters staggered around the far side of the workshop and held their breaths. Had they been sighted?
The door banged open, then shut. “Not even a drop left in the shop to celebrate,” Johannes of Mainz muttered. “Preposterous.”
Coins jingling in his purse, he strode away without a second glance. He cut between the other buildings like a cat in a churchyard, and his footsteps soon faded.
Ennelin exhaled slowly. Her stomach churned.
Aurelia leaned against her with a faint groan. “Forgive me. I should have prepared you more fully. The awe is nearly unbearable even now. Oh, just one glance more before we return.”
She pulled Ennelin back to the window and gazed into the shop. The fire crackled low in the hearth, and a lantern still burned upon the workbench. “To think of what this invention will mean! How it will change . . . everything.”
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