Carnival of Time
Page 33
Caleb turned and drew a large, worn book from his crowded shelf, placing it reverently on the table. It was a heavy tome, with a leather dust jacket he had made himself. Beneath the leather was an old binder, with rusted metal rings and plastic coated covers. He flipped slowly through the many pages, relishing the dry, crinkly texture of the parchment. Smiling, he picked up a pen made from a large dinosaur feather and turned to the middle of the book, finding the spot where he had last written. Dipping the quill carefully in a small bottle of ink, he began to write.
June 29, 2034
Today is an anniversary, of sorts. Exactly one year ago, I began this journal. My life has become happily busy lately, and I have had little time to write in this book, but I thought that today would be a good day to update the journal with several recent events.
My house was completed last week, with much help from friends and neighbors. It is a nice, two story cottage on the southwest side of Carnival’s slope, with a small guest room and a very comfortable study, where I am sitting now. It attaches at the back to a smaller cottage where Bill will be moving in, and a large barn that we refer to as “Chuck’s Doghouse.” She has taken well to city life, since I am able to take her out hunting in the hills at least twice a week. The neighbors’ concerns are nearly gone, thanks in part to Chuck’s newfound willingness to give their children rides. I think her injured leg has finally fully healed. She doesn’t show any sign of discomfort when I ride her, and has returned to her old habit of carrying her saddle to me as a hint that she wants to go out.
Eric’s statue was also unveiled yesterday. It’s an incredible likeness—I almost expected it to start cracking bad jokes at the tiny birds that landed on its shoulders. It stands on the edge of the great processional stairs that stretch up to the Council Tower, along with statues of several other fallen heroes of Carnival.
Heroes of Carnival. It’s a funny term, when you hear it applied to yourself. I don’t know if any of us are quite used to our fame yet. We probably never will be. They’re actually writing songs about us now! Tess thinks it’s funny, but Garner has been getting a bit overwhelmed. The other day, a singer started playing one of Garner’s favorite old radio songs, but he had changed the words. It was all about our heroic march into the depths of the Reaver’s lair. It was really embarrassingly exaggerated and didn’t fit the tune well at all. When Garner heard what the poor singer was doing to his favorite song, he roared something I won’t write here and dunked him upside down into a rain barrel. Some deal with the pressures of fame a little less gracefully than others, I guess.
Bill is doing quite well here. Last month, after one of the nine Council Members stepped down, Bill was elected to replace him. He claims that the decision was heavily influenced by his celebrity status, and that may be so, but his experience from organizing the rebellion in the Reaver’s base should be of great help.
Tess is away today, out hunting in the hills, but she’s due back tomorrow. I remember wondering once, shortly after I first saw her, whether Tess would seem quite so fierce and beautiful inside the walls of a city. I suppose I thought that city life might tame her free spirit—diminish her somehow. City life has changed her, but she hasn’t been diminished, and she certainly hasn’t been tamed. At some of the council meetings, I’ve seen her argue about how various things should or shouldn’t be done, and I see the same fire I saw when she was in the Caravan. Some nights, when the singers and musicians start playing fast and loud, she dances just like she did that night by the campfire. Her eyes flash that amazing gold, and suddenly the layer of civility she puts on while she’s here grows very thin, and you can see the wild, free spirit underneath. Sometimes I look at that face; so beautiful yet so unfettered, and I can’t believe she ever agreed to marry me. She says that ever since we met when we were little kids, she’s always wanted to marry the boy who knew the dinosaurs’ names.
It’s funny, how things change, without changing. When the Lights Went Out, I felt like I was losing a beautiful world, and nothing could ever come along that would be better than what we had. Now, I look at the new world I’ve found—the city of Carnival, Chuck, Tess, all the others. Even Bill is here now. This new life I’m living is still very different than my childhood. Even with the machine Bill rescued from Clank’s lab, we still don’t have any TV, or radio, or computers, or any of that. But we have a home. And family. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Caleb paused and looked out of the window at the growing city. The sun sparkled on the waves of Crater Lake, and the distant cries of pterosaurs echoed over the water. With a last look at his journal, Caleb got up and walked out of his study, into the cozy living room. He sat down in a big chair by the window and looked at a large, round wooden box, draped with a soft quilt. Caleb pulled the quilt back and smiled, pushing aside the layer of insulating hay and running his hand along the smooth surface of Tess’s egg. He whispered softly and felt the gentle stirring of the tiny baby inside, then turned and glanced out the window again, listening to the distant laughter of children.
“No,” he said calmly, “I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.”
The End.
Visit macraffen.com to access additional content. View concept illustrations from Carnival of Time, contact the author, join discussions with other readers, and receive the latest news about other upcoming projects from Alan MacRaffen.
I would like to thank my wife, Molly Brewer, for her constant support and encouragement.
Special thanks also go to my mother, Debbie Matthews, for being my first reader and editor, and to Susan Brewer, for giving me the idea to go digital.
I would also like to thank my childhood friends, Chris Philbrook and Joe Tremblay, who have consistently encouraged me in all my creative endeavors. This book has a new and more exciting cover thanks to their support.
Thanks also to all my friends and family who gave advice and support, read early drafts, and encouraged me to follow through. You’re all a part of this project.
Alan MacRaffen is a writer, illustrator and book designer. He lives in Maine with his wife, artist Molly Brewer, and their cat Husker. As a child, he loved monsters, dinosaurs and mythical creatures. He still does.
This is his first novel.