“Your father,” Frau Iver interjected. “You think he is in the realm of the bag.”
“I—I don’t know. Everywhere else is…empty.” The Puppeteer’s voice filled with a hollow sadness that permeated the room.
“That does not give you the right!” The Toy Peddler’s hand shot out toward the cloth, but Frau Iver’s frosty palm blocked it.
“We need to remain calm,” Frau Iver pleaded.
“She’s right,” the Sister of Monsters said, wiping her mouth on her sleeve and eyeing the suddenly calm and reasonable Frau Iver. “Puppeteer, what did you see?”
“I saw…” the Puppeteer began and his wooden eyes clicked toward the Toy Peddler, “everything. If the First Story had been there, I would have seen it.”
The Toy Peddler, suddenly deflated, sat back in his chair but kept his eyes fixed on the Puppeteer and his jaw clenched. The Sister of Monsters pushed the cloth toward the Toy Peddler, and he slipped it back into his pocket without taking his eyes off of the Puppeteer, who stared defiantly back at him.
“How would we use the First Story?” Frau Iver picked up her wine glass and sipped. “I’m not sure that I would know how.”
The others turned to the Toy Peddler. “I read the agreement.” The Toy Peddler flipped open his bag, and the others tensed. “Relax, I have a…” He rummaged through the rapidly expanding cloth. “It’s in here somewhere.” He stuck his head, along with his entire arm, into the sack. “Aha!” He pulled himself back to the world and held out a scroll.
“You have the agreement?” The Sister of Monsters took the parchment and unfurled it.
“A copy, yes.” The Toy Peddler sipped his beer. “Why don’t you have a copy? The most important document in all of Creativity, the laws that govern all of our actions, why would you not want to read that?”
“We helped write it.” The Sister of Monsters laid the document on the tabletop. The other leaned forward, save for the Toy Peddler, who was leaning back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face.
“What does it say about the First Story?” The Puppeteer tried to ask the question in his usual disaffected manner, but the situation was far too interesting.
The Sister of Monsters placed a tiny hand on the paper, pointing one finger to the words, and read, “An Aspect, powerful and old enough, who is in direct possession of the First Story, can enact influence, altering the course of events for all citizens of Creativity through mindful, plaintive, honest manipulation.”
“Who’s the moron who wrote that?” The Puppeteer flung his hands over his head. They clacked down to his side, tapping repeatedly on the seat of his chair.
“So, all any of us would have to do is concentrate, and we could change the world?” Frau Iver’s icy stare felt more poignant with her statement.
“That does seem to be asking for trouble.” The Sister of Monsters sat back and looked at her fellow Council members. Another drip of white oozed from between her lips. “Which one of you did it?”
Chapter 20
The whiteness began to fade to gray, a dull, lifeless gray that settled on Matt like an oppressive quilt. The ticking returned, joined by bustling as the nurses were making their rounds, and a fullness pressed against his lower abdomen. He returned from the bathroom to find his mother just reappearing from behind the metal doors.
“Is he…?” Matt began but found that there were very few ways he could finish that question without tempting heartbreak.
“We don’t know yet,” his mother answered every question.
“Why…?” Matt again didn’t know how to finish the question.
Luckily, his mother understood. “There were complications with the surgery. They needed further consent for…to do more surgery.”
Matt nodded and sat back into what he now thought of as his chair. His legs tingled as he returned them to the standard position, tucked under the chair, crossed ankles, and he was forced to straighten them, flexing his feet to loosen the tight muscles. Having missed dinner, his stomach rumbled, but it was an impotent rumble at best, no match for the pang in his heart.
“Anyway,” his mother continued, “both of his parents are here now, so we can go home and get some rest. We can come back early in the morning.”
Matt considered arguing, demanding that he stay here, but the weariness was too pronounced. He couldn’t even muster a head shake. Instead, he followed his mother out of the room, through the corridors, and to the parking lot. He hesitated at the car door, his hand on the handle, refusing to pull.
“What if…?” he asked another incomplete question.
“There’s nothing you can do here. We’ll go home, get some rest, and come back in the morning.”
His mother’s logic was flawless; at least, that is what he chose to believe. It wouldn’t make a difference, would it? If he got the news in that waiting room or in his room at home, it would still be the same news, wouldn’t it?
He didn’t know the answer; all he knew was a bone-weary wave of weakness was taking over. He slumped into the car seat, his head lolled to the side, and he watched the outside world, that normal world full of insignificant colors, drift by. He watched people in cars, on the sidewalks, standing in lines in front of restaurants, and he understood that they didn’t know the world was so strange right now. They had jobs to do or lives to live; they went about their business as if nothing had changed at all, and, for them, nothing had.
Chapter 21
A Broken Toy
The Toy Peddler came from the mists of a dreary night and stepped into the sun of a bright day. He strolled through the streets of the town and whistled without meaning to. His sack of toys felt lighter than it had ever felt; his work felt more important than he had ever considered.
“Might I have one?” the little boy asked, pointing to the overstuffed toy sack.
“What do you have to trade?” The Toy Peddler looked at the boy’s empty, dust-stained hands.
“I have nothing?” The boy hung his head and turned to leave.
“That does not preclude a trade.” The Toy Peddler shoved his hand into the sack and produced the perfect toy, a wind-up model train. He held it out to the boy. “Might I have a dream for this?”
The boy’s eyes grew wide and hopeful. “What is a dream?”
The Toy Peddler paused. He reexamined the small creature in front of him. He was tiny, small enough to make a decent living as a chimney sweep. There was something else about this boy, something not like other children.
“Where is your family?”
“They’ve all gone,” the boy responded in a matter-of-fact way that caused the Toy Peddler’s heart to ache.
“When did they leave?”
“Before I could remember,” the answer was too sad.
“Who takes care of you?”
“I have no one, sir.”
The Toy Peddler eyed the child. This fragile life, so full of pain, so defined by neglect. “A dream is like a wish.”
“A wish?” The boy’s eyes revealed his ignorance.
“A…” The Toy Peddler struggled for a word. Desire? Want? Need? Would this poor little thing understand any of these? Then an idea struck him. “A toy.”
“Oh yes.” The boy smiled. “I would very much like one of those.”
“In exchange for a dream?” the Toy Peddler asked, though he intuited the answer.
“I don’t have a toy.”
“It’s a toy that lives in your head.” The Toy Peddler pointed the little boy’s greasy hair.
“Will it hurt?”
“Not a bit.” The Toy Peddler moved a slender finger along the boy’s forehead and took the glow that formed and pushed it into his pocket. Then he gave the boy the wooden train.
“What is it?” the boy asked.
“It’s called a train.” The Toy Peddler pointed to the tracks on the far side of the city. “There are big ones over there that people ride on.”
The boy’s eyes strained to see the trains in the distance.
&
nbsp; “And there are conductors who make the trains move.” The Toy Peddler patted the boy’s head. “Maybe you can be a conductor when you grow up a little more.”
“I could be a con…?”
“Conductor. Yes, I think you would make a remarkable conductor.”
The Toy Peddler walked into the sunlight of a beautiful day, heading toward the mists of a dreary night, while a little boy, huddled alone in the shadows of buildings, dreamed of a magical thing called a train.
Chapter 22
Accusations
“Us!” The Toy Peddler slapped both hands hard on the table. “Are you still on that? You still think one of us did it!”
“Who else is old and powerful enough?”
“There are many,” Frau Iver whispered, her eyes mere glassy slits, her hands tensed.
“Yeah,” the Puppeteer interjected. “Lots of Aspects, and let’s not forget the Elder Forms.”
“The agreement forbids their involvement.” The Sister of Monsters immediately recognized the error in her logic. The others turned large eyes with eyebrows raised as high as was possible for each. “Of course, we should consider the Elder Forms as well.” A strange calm wrapped itself around her, and she slumped in her chair. “Forgive me for accusing you, especially you.” The Sister of Monsters bowed her head toward the Toy Peddler. “This whole theft has me on edge.”
“I understand, a little.” The Toy Peddler nodded. “But we have to trust each other, at least, especially if we cannot trust anyone else.”
“How do we actually know the thief is not one of us?” Frau Iver sipped her wine, trying to settle back into the conversation.
“We don’t,” the Puppeteer guffawed.
“You think this is funny?” The Toy Peddler shot a disapproving glance in the puppet’s direction.
“I think everything is funny.” The Puppeteer’s laughter echoed throughout the Inn, causing several patrons, who were trying desperately to look as if they were not eavesdropping, to shiver.
The Sister of Monsters moved then, slightly cocking her head to one side as if she heard a whisper in the distance. “There is something wrong with my story,” she said. The others turned toward her. She continued to stare blankly, her large spider eyes seeming to focus on several things that were not there.
“Well?” The Puppeteer asked impatiently. “What is it?”
“I—” she began, but then her face contorted in pain as if a sudden headache had taken hold of her. “I don’t know.”
Frau Iver held up her empty wine glass, “Should we consider your story?”
“I think…” The Sister of Monsters shook her head as vigorously as a dog trying to rid its fur of water. “I think the Puppeteer should tell my story.”
“Why me?” The Puppeteer flapped his mouth.
“Just tell the story.” The Toy Peddler held a hand to his forehead.
“So impatient.” The hollow laugh faded slowly into a raucous retelling of a core story.
Chapter 23
The Perpetual Danger
The little girl shuffled her feet along the forest floor. Her tiny leather shoes, no longer shiny but mud-caked, displaced few of the fallen leaves. The shadows were stretching into the center of the vague path she was trying to follow. Soon, it would be night, and she was alone, only her favorite toy to keep her company.
“We shouldn’t be here,” the little girl whispered to the little wooden boy she carried in her arms.
“Where are you off to, little girl,” the Growl in the Night asked from his dark hiding place.
“Who’s there?” The little girl hugged the wooden boy closer.
“I am the fear you feel in the dark.” The Growl in the Night moved easily among the trees, circling the girl without being seen. “I am the tingle in your spine when you are alone. I am the oldest and greatest of all frights for I am the Growl in the Night.”
“I’m not afraid.” The little girl’s knees shook and threatened to give way beneath her.
“Yes, you are,” the Growl in the Night said, much closer to the girl’s ear.
She ran. Panic propelled her tiny feet. The wooden boy’s head bounced violently up and down. The trees stood witness, silent, unmoving, uncaring. The darkness grew darker still. The light fled from the forest. Still, she ran until her little legs could run no further. Then she fell at the base of a giant tree and scurried as close to the unyielding bark as she could.
“It’s okay,” she whispered to the wooden boy. “It’s gone now.”
The wind wafted around her; the shadows tickled at her bare legs; the trees remained forever vigilant. The night growled.
“No, no, no.” The little girl sobbed into her knees, pulled tight to her body. The wooden boy dropped at her side.
“What would you give me to let you go?” The Growl in the Night was as close as ever.
“What do you want?” The little girl’s face remained buried in her knees.
“What about that chew toy beside you?” A shadowy paw flicked at the wooden boy.
The little girl, seeing the wooden boy jerk, kicked her feet with all her might, “Take it! Take it! Please!”
The wind tickled her hair; the shadows fled into the forest; the trees sighed in relief. The night laughed.
After a time, the little girl rose and brushed off her dress. She bent and rubbed much of the mud from her shoes, not enough to make them shine again but enough to see the black leather once more. She tightened her hair into neater pigtails and stepped from the shelter of the tree. The path home was obvious. She took one step, then another, then one more.
Chapter 24
Separating Is a Plan
“The Growl in the Night.” The Puppeteer turned his head nearly all the way around looking over at the bar area and toward the door. “Since when am I in a story with the Growl in the Night?”
“It’s an odd change, for sure.” The Sister of Monsters tapped her fingers on the tabletop.
“And the ending?” the Toy Peddler chimed in. “It is far too vague for one of your stories.”
The Sister of Monsters nodded her agreement.
“This can wait,” Frau Iver interjected. “We need to focus on the First Story.”
“Your wine.” The Innkeeper suddenly appeared, her voice subdued and as calm as she could make it, and placed a glass in front of Frau Iver. “Sorry it took so long, but it’s been a while since anyone ordered wine in here.”
“Thank you,” Frau Iver responded and curled her fingers around the glass, which immediately fogged up, and she looked at several of her empty wine glasses on the bar. Was this another alteration? she thought. That the Innkeeper forgot I’ve been drinking wine all night? That seemed a ridiculously useless change.
“Mel,” the Innkeeper offered.
“What?” the Sister of Monsters asked quickly.
“My name is Mel.” The Innkeeper smiled and walked away.
“The woman Innkeeper has a name,” the Toy Peddler said. “That’s new. Where did the Innkeeper get a name?”
“Well, I bet she got it when she met Baba Vedma,” the Puppeteer said, turning his attention back to the table after realizing the Growl in the Night was not going to come into the bar anytime soon.
“We need to speak with Baba Vedma.” Frau Iver pointed at the Sister of Monsters. “You should go to her.”
“Agreed,” the Sister of Monsters said. “But we should also talk to the Dottore. Toy Peddler?”
“No,” the Toy Peddler offered. “Frau Iver would be a better choice for the Dottore. I’ll go find the Growl in the Night.”
“Agreed?” the Sister of Monsters asked, and the others nodded. “Good then, we meet back here tomorrow.”
“What about me?” The Puppeteer waved his wooden hand high above his wooden head.
“You stay here and keep an eye on the Innkeeper.” The Toy Peddler nodded toward their buxom hostess.
“Good idea!” The Puppeteer clacked his head up and down.
&nbs
p; The Council of Aspects raised their glasses and toasted their endeavor. Then they left, save the Puppeteer, traveling into the Gloaming Wood outside the I nn at the Edge of the Woods.
Chapter 25
Baba Vedma
There was a story, as old as civilization, of a woman who sewed. She chose her threads from the lives of every man, woman, and child in existence, threads that connected all of humanity to other realms, other worlds, other existences. She took generously from each and every person. She plucked her fabrics from the universe above. She grasped the cosmos with withered hands, forming soft squares of further existence. She sewed with fingers as old as time and a purpose as new as a babe in its crib. Her name, Baba Vedma; she is to be feared.
Her sisters had long ago invited her to leave the cave where the three of them worked to weave the story of humanity, intermingling the threads of life that marked a human’s journey into a tapestry so grand, so vast, that it encompassed everything that ever was. Baba Vedma glimpsed something one day, perhaps a shadow, maybe a trick of firelight, that changed her. She understood, suddenly and without warning, that they, her sisters and she, could do so much more. Her sisters disagreed. So, Baba Vedma left the cave, and she saw for the first time, the world within worlds outside her previously constrained existence.
She soon discovered that the threads of life could be used in ways very different from the singular way she and her sisters had used them. She carefully searched for the perfect thread to test her idea, and she found a young man just beginning his life as a farmer, complete with a wife and newborn daughter. Baba Vedma snatched his thread and got to work.
She pulled a panel from the ether, a silken cloth of rarest moonlight, and then she took a bit of rough-hewn earth from the ground at her feet. She sewed, pulling more fabric and thread as she went. So fast and so precise were her stitches that the man barely had time to blink before his quilt was made. Baba Vedma flung the quilt over the man’s head, and she saw his life splayed out before her but not his past. It was his future she spied.
The First Story Page 6