Looking on the bright side isn’t my thing. Plus, it’s just plain stupid. Why make yourself think there’s a positive when there isn’t?
As we walked to Aunt Holly’s car, I said, “Thanks for paying to get it fixed.”
“No problem, sweetie. You’ll get it back soon enough.” She added with a shake of her head, “As long as that guy isn’t the one who fixes it.”
I stifled a laugh.
I knew she was right. It could have been worse. I could have lost everything, but on the other hand, it probably wouldn’t have happened to someone else. I can always rely on my raincloud following me wherever I go.
I buckled up and stared out the window. “All my books are on my tablet. Now what am I going to do?” I crossed my arms.
Aunt Holly pulled the car onto the street and grinned at me. “I’m surprised at you, Nimrod. How many times did Grandpa take you up to his study and read to you? If the insurance company knew how many books were in the house they’d raise our rates. One spark and it’ll go up in smoke.”
“But all the stories I’ve been writing are on my tablet. What if I want to write?” I fired at her, agitated she used my full name.
“Grandpa was a writer. He wrote everything by hand with an antique pen. Don’t know if he ever showed it to you, but he cherished it. You could go into the attic and see if you can find it in his desk. He wrote into his will that you were to inherit it.”
That was a strange thing to leave to someone. I couldn’t really recall the pen but I did remember the time we spent in the attic when I came to visit. Grandpa would read me his stories with so much enthusiasm I thought he was the most brilliant person I’d ever met. I wondered if it would be the same being in the attic without him.
“All right, I’ll take a look. All his books up there still?”
“Yeah, they should be. I tidied up there after he died and know there are lots of papers from his unfinished projects. All the walls are covered with books. And most of the floor. He may have been smart, but he was a slob. He was interested in historical fiction, mysteries, a little bit of everything. As I recall, you like fantasy, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Just look out for spiders. It’s been a while since I’ve gone up there. Oh, and don’t open the crypt…that’s where Dracula sleeps during the day.” Aunt Holly stuck her teeth out, pretending she had fangs.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Really? One of your old boyfriends?”
Aunt Holly joined in the laughter and said, “Okay, I deserved that.” She took a slow breath and changed the subject. “So, you feel like trying Thai food tonight?”
It’s not much of a mystery that I’m known for sticking to familiar things, and that includes food. I don’t like looking for trouble or a stomachache. To be honest, a grilled cheese sandwich sounded good to me right about then, but when I looked at Aunt Holly’s eager eyes, I couldn’t say no.
“Sure, why not? You’re on a roll. You got me to try coffee. What’s next?”
Aunt Holly gave me a wink. “I’m on a secret mission.”
A pang of sadness rippled through my body. I felt guilty. Here I was enjoying a moment with my aunt, who was able to somehow make me feel normal for a second.
It wasn’t fair. How could someone so important to me be taken away? It wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I should have been at home in Florida with Mom.
Just as my sadness and self-pity churned into a tsunami, tears rose to the surface, so I closed my eyes tight and balled up my fists.
I opened my eyes when we were parked on the driveway. Aunt Holly was staring at me.
“How about some dinner?” she asked in a whisper.
Without saying a word, I nodded and got out of the car.
I did my best to enjoy the Thai food, but it’s hard breaking old habits. It was probably my imagination, but I thought I saw some of the noodles move by themselves, making me think of a bowl of worms, which made it hard to swallow. I tried convincing myself I was eating a grilled cheese sandwich, but once I hit a mouthful of mushrooms and something else I couldn’t identify, I pushed my plate away.
Aunt Holly watched me scoot back from the table and stand up. “Had your fill? Why don’t you look upstairs in the attic? You may want to take the hand vac with you, though – for all the dust.” Aunt Holly took a sip of her herbal tea and ate another bite of dinner.
“All right, I’ll give it a go. Where is it?” I was ready to leave. The smell of peanut butter and an assortment of mysterious ingredients reminded my stomach I’d just forced down ‘food’ that was nothing like the mac and cheese Mom used to make.
Aunt Holly’s voice followed me out of the room. “It’s in the upstairs hall closet.”
I leapt up the stairs two at a time, wrenched open the closet door, and found more than the vacuum on the floor. There had to be at least three generations of shoes that cluttered the wooden floorboards, along with dust bunnies the size of my fist. I found the red handy vac hiding behind a long trench coat.
I tried to contain the dust inside the closet before closing the door, then wandered to the end of the hallway, where I found the attic door. It clearly hadn’t been opened in a while, and I wondered if it had been painted shut after trying to pry it open for about five minutes. Finally, I braced my foot on the frame and pulled with all my strength until it finally jerked clear, letting out a gasp of stale air. This must have been what it was like opening King Tut’s tomb, I thought. I hoped I wouldn’t break some creepy curse going into Grandpa’s attic.
A dark stairwell rose before me. I flipped the light switch and climbed the steep steps, grabbing onto the rail for support. Spider webs hung from the ceiling and plastered the walls. I’m not a fan of spiders. I don’t scream and hide from them or anything, but ever since reading The Hobbit when I was a kid, seeing a set of spider pinchers makes me reach for the bug spray.
I walked across the book-strewn room and opened a small window for some fresh air. A dark maroon rug, turned gray from the grime covering it, was stacked with papers. A dusty typewriter sat in the corner, a gift from my mom that had obviously gone unused. Books were piled around on the floor and covered the walls in homemade bookcases. Cobwebs touched every surface. I held out the hand vacuum and switched it on. I felt like a cutting-edge knight. Armed with my plastic, modern-day weapon, the spiders had no chance. Once I could walk across the room without getting covered in spider silk, I wandered over to Grandpa’s desk.
A feather duster lay lifeless on the floor, like a dead bird covered in a thick layer of filth. I picked it up and shook it out the window, and started to sweep the dust off the desk. Soon the mahogany wood was free of its dirty veil, but the air became so thick I had to stumble back to the window, sputtering for fresh air.
After I recovered, I settled at the rolltop desk and counted its nearly thirty little compartments and tiny drawers that lined the front. Unfortunately, Grandpa hadn’t shut the cover the last time it was used and a pile of blank papers sat at the center of the workspace. I gathered them up into a tidy stack.
It was then I spotted the fountain pen. Now that I was looking at it, something clicked. I don’t know how old I was at the time, but I remembered asking Grandpa if it was made of gold and him laughing. He had said it was special, and that when I was grown up, he’d give it to me. Well, that had never happened.
I picked it up. It was heavier than I expected, but I liked the way it settled between my fingers. The cold metal quickly warmed to my touch and I made a couple test marks on a piece of paper. Ink flowed evenly from the tip and the sound of the metal scratching against the paper made me smile.
It had been a while since I’d written one of my stories by hand.
I snatched a fresh sheet of paper and wrote down my name: N.R. Vale. I never write out my full name on manuscripts, I mean, would you pick up a book by Nimrod Roger Vale? I wouldn’t. Not unless it was an idiot’s guide to picking terrible baby names.
I closed my eyes an
d envisioned the world that had been tumbling around in my imagination over the last week, with its rocky terrain and sunless sky, where few creatures could survive. A land at war and a princess caught in the crossfire, held against her will in a cold tower by a man once in love with her, whose heart had been hardened by magic.
Ready to pour my words onto the page, I gripped the pen tight and started writing. The words flowed easily, each scene unfolding before me almost as though it had been waiting to come out. Before long, I had four chapters written and a wicked hand cramp.
I dropped the pen to the table, groaned, and rubbed my eyes. My back hunched and I touched my head to the table. Tired and drained of words, I looked up and noticed a hinged wooden box with an intricate swirl pattern engraved on it. Green velvet lined the interior and it had a long, narrow indent. I placed the fountain pen into the box, went down the attic steps, and switched off the light.
As I tossed and turned under the bumpy bedspread that night, my thoughts curled around Grandpa’s fountain pen. If it was so valuable to him, why hadn’t he bothered putting it away after he had finished using it last?
***
Clang!
My eyes popped open, and then shut just as quickly when the bright morning light seared my retinas. I flung my hand out from under the covers and grabbed the clock. Nine o’clock – great. I guessed Aunt Holly didn’t sleep in on Sundays. Awesome.
While debating with myself about going back to sleep, the smell of bacon and eggs wafted into the room, and my hunger pains won. I slid out of bed wearing my boxers and a t-shirt. Before I could get too chilly, I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and wool socks. It hadn’t taken me long to discover that the old wood floors ran at a temperature that could keep milk chilled.
When I stumbled into the kitchen, Aunt Holly’s eyes widened as she stared at my hair. I patted down the spiky points as she wiped the grin from her face and turned to the sink.
“So, how’d you sleep last night?”
I flopped onto a bar chair at the counter and shrugged in response.
“Not a morning person, are you?”
I shrugged again.
“I have just the thing.” Aunt Holly placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of me and smiled. “Sugar, no cream - the way you like it.”
“Thanks. Did I smell breakfast?”
A plate covered with eggs, bacon and toast was set before me. Aunt Holly shrugged and said, “I may not be a parent, but I know any growing teen likes to eat, or at least, I think so.”
“Yeah, growing teens also like to sleep,” I grumbled and she swatted me with a dish towel.
While I tucked into my food, she asked, “So, did you find Grandpa’s stuff last night? I didn’t see you again, so…”
Between bites I incoherently answered, “Nah, sa mess…uh, there.”
“Oookay, a sow might be able to understand you, but I can’t. Swallow.” Aunt Holly took a sip from her mug and nibbled the edge of her toast.
I gulped down a mouthful of eggs and followed it with some coffee. With every sip, I felt more and more human, or awake. After rubbing my eyes and stretching my arms, I coiled back into a slouch. “Sorry, yeah. I found the pen and all the writing stuff up there. It’s a mess, though. Full of cobwebs and dust. I think the handy vac might have died from exhaustion.”
“Well, it sounds like a job for the upright and a wet cloth.”
Aunt Holly fluffed her ever-frizzy hair and smacked her lips with a pop.
“So, what do you feel like today? You want me to take you somewhere - see the sights?”
I noticed a painter’s rag and a brush tip poking out of her pocket and guessed how she normally spent her Sundays. I thought about going outside and my throat tightened.
“No thanks. I’d rather work on the story I started last night. You can go ahead and paint - I know you want to, anyway.” I looked down at the golden yolk pooling at the edges of my plate.
“If it makes you happy,” she said, searching my downcast eyes.
Happy wasn’t gonna happen, but I nodded and picked up my plate, dropping it in the sink. I thumped upstairs to my room, put on a pair of slippers, returned to the hallway closet to grab the upright vacuum and rolled it to the attic door.
The air was still stuffy, but at least it wasn’t as bad as yesterday. I had to move some piles of books to find an outlet. Soon the dingy rug was magenta again.
Sunlight slanted in through a circular window and warmed the mahogany wood on the desk. I plopped into the chair and watched dust motes float through the air before reaching out to the carved box that held my grandpa’s treasure.
Inside, the golden pen waited, gleaming on its velvety bed. For the first time, I noticed a fine design etched onto its barrel. I lifted it close to my eyes and wondered how old it was. I’d never used a pen like this before and wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do when it ran out of ink or if I needed to clean it at all. I supposed I’d figure it out when the time came. Shrugging to myself, I set to work.
The sound of the metal tip scratching on paper was even sweeter than the clattering keys of a keyboard. And the pen seemed to, well, belong in my hand – connect with me, somehow, the same way it did with the paper.
I took a deep breath and continued where I’d left off. The princess was trapped in her tower with no way of escape. It wasn’t before long I realized things were going nowhere fast. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to take the plot. I started doubting my storyline when I introduced a colorful flying creature she charmed into being a pet. She wasn’t supposed to be Dr. Doolittle.
I paused, unsure of how to continue my story. Now that I’d committed it to paper, I wasn’t sure. Writer’s block. I should have known. I could never seem to finish anything I started. Maybe it was time to scrap the idea and move on to something else. Who’d want to read it, anyway? No one, that was who. Best to send this one to the literary graveyard, I decided, and scrawled ‘The End’ on the paper.
I stared at the gold fountain pen. The ink surely had to be getting low, but I had no idea how to refill it. I twisted it between my fingers and stared at the etching. It was then I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. Words were scrawled in script along its length.
It had to be Latin. I wasn’t good with languages. At times, I questioned if English was even my strong suit. I was too self-conscious to practice in front of anyone, but since I was alone, I figured I’d give it a try. There was no one to laugh at me except myself.
“Ars imitatur vita.”
No sooner had I stumbled over the words than the edges of the paper began to glow and flicker. Light radiated from the page as though I was staring into the sun. I covered my eyes with my hands and a prickling sensation surged through my body.
Chapter 3 - Bad Dream
Heat seared my wrist and I gasped in pain. The blinding light faded and I lowered my arms.
No longer perched at the desk in the shadowy attic, I stood in a darkened, desolate landscape. Clouds filled the sky and covered any sign of the sun (assuming there even was one). I couldn’t tell if it was day or night. I turned in place and stared at a rocky ridge line that surrounded me and I realized I was in a large, hollow basin.
Where was I, the moon? I must have fallen asleep. This was a dream. It had to be. Or I’d got hit in the head with an asteroid and was lying comatose on the floor.
The hot spot on my wrist slowly cooled and I realized it was the metal from my watch. I unfastened it and stared at its face. The digital screen was blank, dead. I tapped it a couple times without any result and slipped it into my pocket. Strange.
Stones poked at my feet through my slippers and a cold breeze blew past me, cutting through my thin shirt and sweatpants. I shivered and rubbed my arms. If this was a dream, it was the most realistic one I’d ever had. The wintry air bit at my skin and I wished I’d dreamt up warmer clothing. I figured it wasn’t too late to try so I closed my eyes and imagined a puffy winter coat and tennis shoes, but after a minute, I
gave up. Great, I was trapped in a dream I had no control over. Way to go, Nimrod.
Light shimmered nearby, drawing my attention. I turned to see the outline of a glowing rectangle, like a doorway. As I wondered what it could be, I noticed a dark, crooked form in my periphery. It would be just my luck to fall straight into a nightmare filled with monsters.
I held my breath and whipped around.
It was only a tree, if you could still call it that. What remained was a blackened shell. It had no leaves or color – it was completely burnt and lifeless. Was everything dead here? I walked up to it, touched the onyx trunk and the paper-thin bark crumbled beneath my fingertips, revealing a smooth surface. It reminded me of the time I touched a marble statue. It was hard, but silky soft, too.
Sadness washed over me so suddenly, I wasn’t prepared for it. I had to gasp for air as the memory of my mother’s lifeless body lying in her hospital bed seared my thoughts. She was once beautiful and vibrant, like this tree must have been.
I couldn’t leave this once living thing looking so charred and tattered. Frowning, I stepped forward and rubbed its surface. Bits of blackened bark disintegrated at my touch and fluttered to the earth. When its torso was released from its burnt exterior, I slumped to my knees and dropped my head into my sooty hands.
Completely alone in this dreadful place, I bellowed and my voice echoed off the stony walls. Tears curled off my lashes and splashed onto the roots of the tree. Then I could have sworn the roots spread apart, revealing a dark hollow nook. I wiped my eyes with the edge of my shirt, sure they were playing tricks on me. When I looked again, everything was still.
Hidden within the tree trunk, I made out a rounded shape. I crawled forward and peered into a dark recess at the base of the enormous tree. A black object was entwined in the roots. I reached in, and with effort, pulled it out.
It was unlike anything I had seen before. Its glassy surface shone faintly in the low light and its teardrop shape fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. I had never found anything quite so amazing. It was freezing, and over the next few minutes, only seemed to grow colder. My instinct was to drop it, but instead, I slipped it into my pocket.
An Unfortunate Beginning Page 2