by Martha Wells
Thunder rumbled again, close and threatening, and Manny glanced uneasily up at the sky. If he came home soaking wet, maybe she would go easy on him. Manny snorted to himself. Not likely. He knew he'd crossed a line by even temporarily running away.
Then he saw Beltran's Discount Books, with the friendly "open" sign in its window.
The store used to be one of his favorite haunts, but he hadn't been there for months.
The bell above the entrance jangled a welcome as Manny pushed the heavy glass door open. The familiar cool, dusty air of the small shop greeted him like an old friend. Manny took a deep breath, thinking of secrets and adventures in strange worlds.
There were only a few customers scattered around, skimming books on the old wooden shelves that divided the cramped space into a series of narrow corridors. The shop had more in common with a garage sale than with the polished interior of a larger bookstore, but that was what Manny liked about it. It had what his Tia Licha called "personality."
Manny glanced at the front counter, expecting to see Mrs. Beltran smiling and waving to him. But an unfamiliar clerk was ringing up a customer's purchases. Manny studied the tall, thin man's wispy silver hair and well-trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee. Round, gold-framed glasses perched just above his forehead. When the man turned and looked at him, Manny looked quickly away and headed to his favorite section, the fantasy aisle.
Positioning himself so he could keep an eye on the new clerk, Manny dumped his backpack on the floor and scanned the titles crammed into the bookshelf. He used to have most of them memorized, but he spotted several new ones and pulled them out to see their covers and read the blurbs on the back. Dragons, wizards, robots and spaceships, the four staples of all good fiction. He couldn't remember now why he had stopped coming here. He had always loved that feeling of slipping away into a fictional world, the moment when the printing on the page seemed to dissolve away and you were lost in the story, in the characters and their adventures.
Maybe the real world got too...real, he thought. Maybe everything had gone so wrong, he just assumed his favorite books would betray him, too. That the magic wouldn't work anymore.
That was too depressing to think about. Then one cover caught his eye. It showed a flying person with dragon wings and claws. He automatically glanced at the first page, and before he knew it, he was reading the book.
"Can I help you, young man?"
Manny jumped and turned around. The tall clerk, his glasses now over his pale gray eyes, studied him with raised brows. He didn't seem very happy.
"I was just looking," muttered Manny. He replaced the book back on the shelf.
"Looking is allowed," said the clerk, but he didn't smile to show he really meant it. "Let me know if you need any help." He spent a few more uncomfortable moments staring at Manny, then turned to go.
"What happened to Mrs. Beltran?" Manny asked.
The clerk stopped and glanced back at him. "She decided to retire due to health reasons. I'm taking over the store. My name is Mr. Gray, if you should need anything." He gave a curt nod and made his way back to the front counter where another customer waited to be checked out.
Health reasons? Manny knew what that meant, and it was never good. Mrs. Beltran had always seemed old and a bit frail, but he had no idea she had been sick. What if he never saw her again? Now he really regretted staying away for so long. He was pretty sure the new owner wouldn't hand out bubblegum with every purchase.
It had been a mistake to come in here. He didn't like Mr. Gray and if the bookstore was his now, maybe he didn't like it anymore either. He started to replace the paperbacks he had pulled out, but the shelf was so full the other books had pushed into their space. Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he tried to squeeze them back in.
He was about to give up when he saw the problem. There was a big oversized hardcover with a faded leather spine jammed in sideways on top of this shelf of paperbacks and it was pushing everything over. It was weird that he hadn't noticed it before. He grabbed the book with both hands and pulled it out.
It was a very old book, out of place among all the bright colors of the paperbacks. The worn, leather-bound cover was as soft as suede. It had faded to a dull red, but still showed patches of bright crimson here and there, and in the grooves of the binding. That had probably been its original color. There was still a slight tinge of gold visible on the top pages, while the rest had worn down to a dirty mustard color. On the spine, in faded gold letters, the title read: Blade Singer. And at the top, the author's name: Auberon Fae. Manny was familiar with a lot of fantasy authors but he didn't recognize the name. Probably some old, dead British guy.
He opened the book to the scarlet letters of the title page, running his fingers across them. The publishing information at the bottom said: Avalon, Alberich and Sons. And under that were the following numbers: 1662. He did the math in his head. This book is three hundred and fifty years old? He had never held anything that old in his hands before. Well, there had been that Indian arrowhead he'd found a couple of years ago while hiking with his dad, but it had just felt like a plain old rock. This book felt old.
He gingerly leafed through the stiff pages, listening to them crinkle. The strong musty smell triggered a memory of himself as a much younger boy riding on his dad's shoulders. His dad went up and down the book aisles and read the titles aloud to Manny, who would get to pick the one that would go home with them.
Thunder rumbled outside again, much louder than before. The door's bell jangled as somebody left, and a cool breeze swept through that smelled of rain-splashed dirt and concrete. Manny forgot about leaving the store and leafed through the book. Spaced out about every fifty pages were black and white illustrations. The drawings featured dashing cavaliers in various dramatic acts of derring-do. Manny studied the figures carefully. Some of them didn't look human. The lightning that flashed outside the store's windows seemed to make the images move: swords clashed, muskets fired, and horses reared with each new flash.
He turned a page, looking for the next illustration, when something fell out of the book and bounced off his shoe. It glinted in the light as it rolled to a stop on the carpeted floor.
A coin?
Manny bent down to pick it up. It was a coin, all right, heavy and gold. Stamped on one side was the head of a young man with a smooth face and shoulder-length hair. His face was turned to the right and he seemed to be wearing a laurel wreath, like the Roman emperors in the history books. There was some sort of writing he couldn't read around the edges.
He turned the coin over. An emblem made up of three interlocked spirals was stamped on that side. Each of the spirals was the neck of a snake or a dragon. That was a triskelion. His mom had owned a silver pendant in that shape. It had been a gift from Manny's dad.
He hefted the coin in his hand. Something like this had to be worth a lot of money. It would be in a safe or a museum, not in an old book. He should probably tell Mr. Gray it was there, even though he didn't like the guy.
Then he realized the coin felt strangely warm. It was making his skin tingle.
He held it on his open palm and poked it gently. That's weird.
A blinding flash of lightning lit up the store and the overhead lights went out. Thunder shook the walls like an earthquake.
Manny flinched. He thought he heard Mr. Gray call out from the front of the store, asking if he was okay, but the coin in his palm had started to glow, and Manny couldn't look away.
He cupped his hands around it, making sure it wasn't a trick of the lightning or his imagination. The coin shone with an inner light, a golden radiance that bathed his face. He heard a distant ringing. Then suddenly it wasn't so distant, it was loud enough to drown out the rumbling thunder, the rain and the wind. He felt dizzy, and something...someone...wanted him to flip the coin into the air. It seemed a crazy thing to do. There was no way he was going to...
Manny watched his hands, shaking badly, position the shining coin on the back of his thumb a
nd side of his forefinger.
With a gasp, he flipped the coin high into the air.
Chapter Three
Manny's ear rang as the coin flipped end over end, as if he was inside a giant bell. It went into slow motion as it tumbled upward, until finally it hung suspended in the air, flaring like a miniature sun.
A great wind struck Manny with the force of a hurricane. Like some giant had flipped him high into the air just as he had flipped the coin. He tumbled head over heels, the world melting around him.
The ringing of the coin blended with the tolling of the bells and his panicked yell. The sound became deafening. He had the gut wrenching sensation of falling, only he was falling upwards, faster and faster. His vision blurred, and he started to fade.
"You there! Filthy thief!"
The shrill voice snapped him back to consciousness. A host of unfamiliar shapes bustled around him. A cacophony of strange sounds blasted his ears. An overpowering miasma of odors assaulted his nose.
"Oh, man," was all he managed to say. He would have fallen on his butt if someone hadn't grabbed his wrist. That someone was shaking him now. Hard. Manny focused on his assailant.
A round-faced man with a large moustache that curled at the edges scowled down at him. "He's got my purse! See?"
Dazed, Manny glanced at his own hand. He was clutching a large, black pouch tightly in his fist.
The man's feathered wide-brimmed hat kept bumping Manny in the head, but he was too stunned to do anything but stare at the man's clothing. The stranger wore a bright blue doublet and breeches with a lace collar on his shoulders and lace cuffs at his wrists. They were like the cloth napkins his grandmother used to collect.
"Drop my purse at once, you thief!" the man shouted.
Manny looked around. What. The. Heck? He blinked, shook his head, and looked again. Every year, starting when he was four years old, his parents had taken him to a Renaissance festival. It was his favorite place in the whole world. People dressed up like pirates, wenches, beggars, nobles, and cavaliers, and they ran around a huge wooded park filled with stone cottages, small castles, courtyards, and horse-drawn wagons.
That's what Manny was seeing now, except that the buildings weren't small, they towered into the sky, the stone worn and stained. The streets weren't paths of clay and grass, they were brick and cobblestones. And there were absolutely no tourists in shorts, t-shirts, and sunglasses anywhere in sight. Everyone was dressed in costumes.
"Drop my money purse, I said!" The man continued shaking Manny, his face flushed with anger. "Or I'll have my man thrash you!"
"Hey!" Manny stammered. "Quit shaking me. I didn't take anything."
"No? Then what have you got in your hand?"
Dropping the pouch, Manny pulled free and backed away. "This isn't happening," he muttered. "I'm dreaming. That's what this is. It's just a crazy dream."
"You'll wish this was a dream soon enough. Gunthar, thrash that boy," cried the man, pointing at him.
The creature that stepped forward made Manny's jaw drop. He was shorter than Manny, probably four feet tall, and had wrinkled, nut-brown skin. He wore a bright green jacket, yellow pants, enormous black boots, and sported a bright green cap. A bulbous, ruddy nose as big as a summer squash sprouted from the center of his face, and his dark, wiry beard was braided with beads. But most alarming of all, he was carrying a wooden club.
"I'll teach you to steal from your betters, you pointy-eared goblin," Gunthar barked.
What did he just call me? Manny just stared, even more confused. But Gunthar swung the big club at him and he didn't have time to figure it out.
As the club crashed down, Manny darted aside to avoid the strike. He had a heartbeat to realize he had moved way faster than he ever had before, then Gunthar swung the club again, this time like a baseball player determined to hit a home run. Without thinking, Manny dove away from the blow and rolled clear, coming gracefully to his feet. He turned and hissed at Gunthar.
Manny blinked and took a step back. I just hissed. I've never hissed at anything before in my life.
"You can dance all you want, goblin," growled Gunthar. "But I'll get you eventually." He hefted the club to show he intended to have another go.
"You there, sentry!" the man was shouting, waving at someone behind Manny. "Do your duty, stop this thief!"
Manny ducked away from Gunthar, just as something grabbed at him from behind, tearing at his shirt. He whirled around to see a huge man standing over him, broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, so tall he had to stoop to reach for Manny. He wore a rough leather tunic plated with metal rings, and had shaggy hair, gray-tinged skin, and an angry expression.
Then he showed jagged, pointed teeth and growled, like an enormous angry bear. Trow, something in Manny's head whispered. That thing is a trow.
The trow grabbed for him again and Manny back-pedaled, dodging another blow from Gunthar in the process. Manny pointed at him. "You're a spriggan!"
"He's a sharp one, ain't he?" Gunthar snorted at the trow.
"How do I know that?" Manny said, his voice tight with panic.
People on the street were starting to stop to watch and point. I've got to get out of here, Manny thought, throwing a desperate look around the street.
Across the way, there was a two-story stone building, with a big window on the second floor sealed by wooden shutters. A thick beam stood out from the wall just above it, with coiled ropes and a block and tackle attached, for lifting heavy things up to the second story opening. It looked like the Renaissance Festival version of a warehouse. Manny bolted for it.
The trow charged after him, its growl reverberating in Manny's bones. Manny leapt atop a barrel next to the closed street door, then jumped toward a wagon laden with hay, and landed on the side of the soft bales. He scrambled to the top of the pile, looked up at the ropes hanging from the beam. They were looped up, dangling nearly ten feet above his head; there was no way he could reach it.
Even as he thought that, he crouched and leapt.
He caught a loop of the rope, clutched at the rough coils, and hauled himself up until he could get his foot onto the loop and push. He climbed up to the beam, scrabbled up onto it, then ran along it until he could jump up to the roof. It was steeply pitched and he slipped and slid on slate tiles greasy with soot as he ran toward the back of the warehouse.
The roof of the next building was lower down, an easy jump. The shouts from the street were already fading as he fled from that roof to the next.
Chapter Four
Manny ended up on a stone ledge below the small round attic window of a narrow four-story house, panting more from exhilaration than exertion and trying to think.
Okay, this is crazy. I'm crazy. And, he reluctantly admitted to himself, I'm different.
His bare feet didn't hurt from running; under the dirt they had a thick callus that was as tough as the soles of his sneakers. His hands... His skin was the same familiar light brown, but his fingers were way more callused, and he didn't remember them being that long. He was wearing different clothes, a shabby pair of brown canvas pants that were torn off below the knees, and a light cotton shirt. His pants were held up by a rope belt around his too-skinny waist. He felt weird inside his own skin. Like maybe it wasn't his skin.
Swallowing in a dry throat, he turned toward the window. With his sleeve, he scrubbed at the dirt on the glass until he could see his reflection.
He stared, bit his lip and looked away, then turned back to stare some more. I'm not me. He didn't even think he was human.
Manny had always been a skinny kid, and he had lost weight in the past few months, but now he was skinnier than he ever had been in his life. And his arms and legs seemed longer than they should be. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, showing forearms that looked like they were all bone and muscle. But the worst part was his face. His eyes were like a cat's, the familiar brown turned to luminous green and the pupils weirdly slender. Then he pushed his mop of hair back. H
is ears were long and pointed, just like an elf's, just like in the movies.
He sat back, swallowing down a lump in his throat. It's a dream. But how come I can't wake up?
"What's he doing?" a high-pitched voice said, from somewhere not far above Manny's head.
"I don't know," a similar voice replied. "He's just staring at himself."
Uh oh, Manny thought. Cautiously, he stood, looking up. Peering down at him, from the top of the dormer over the window, were two little people. They were no bigger than kittens, and had high pointed ears, sharp little features, and hair like puffs of cotton blossom. One had green skin, and the other was blue, and they were wearing tiny little clothes made out of leaves.
"Now he's staring at us," the blue one said.
"Maybe he's gone mad." The green one pointed significantly at his or her head.
Manny didn't think he could argue with that. "Who are you guys?"
"We're the Pixie Troupe of Elder Asphodel," the green one said. "This is our roof."
"He don't know where he is," the blue one said.
The green one shushed him. "Hush, he might rampage."
"No, no, I won't do that," Manny said. Pixies? Like Tinkerbell? Except they didn't seem to have wings. At least they were answering his questions and not trying to hit him. "What do you mean, 'your roof?' You live up here?"
Their pointed ears twitched in outrage. "Of course we do!" the green one said, making an expansive gesture back.
It seemed to be an invitation, so Manny gripped the edge of the dormer, found a foothold in the rough wooden siding, and pushed himself up. What he saw made him gasp in astonishment.
Nestled in among the chimneys and steeply-pitched dormers of the roof was a forest and a miniature city. Green plants, vines, and flowers grew on every surface, surrounding elaborately constructed buildings made of scraps of wood and trash, like broken bowls, rusted metal pots, bent spoons, and old ratty boots and shoes. Lots of shoes. They were made into individual houses, apartment buildings, castles. There were blue and green pixies everywhere, sitting on the balconies and windows of their makeshift city, carrying thimbles as if they contained something very important, thrashing around in the plants, chasing each other. "Wow," Manny breathed. "Wow."