The First Story

by C Bradley Owens

  “Not like this.” The Origamist concentrated, and a shift of air swept along the deck. He then stepped to the cabin door and knocked on the aged wood. “Are you ready?” A sudden shuffling and a muffled response were followed by a turning of the latch and the appearance of the Keeper of Ways.

  “I’m ready, and you are getting very comfortable using the power of the Second Story. I’m not sure I appreciate being summoned like that.” The Keeper of Ways held a scroll. He motioned toward a scaling table, which Abend repositioned in front of him near the center of the deck. He unrolled the parchment. “This map shows the appearance of the new Aspects.” The Keeper of Ways pointed to the glowing blue dots littering the entirety of the map.

  “How many?” The Angler stepped forward.

  “There are more every day, sometimes every hour.” The Keeper of Ways indicated an area of the map where blue dots were suddenly appearing.

  “If this is not controlled,” the Origamist said, “the whole of Creativity will buckle from the strain of so much uncontrolled expansion.”

  “So, you were trying to halt the expansion.” The Puppeteer pulled an empty barrel to the table on which he could stand. “That’s what all of this has been about?”

  “That’s right.” The Origamist gave a weary, self-righteous sigh.

  “You expect me to believe that crap?” The Puppeteer slapped his wooden hand onto the table, producing a thud that would have made him grimace if his jaw were capable of the movement. “You changed us without our permission. You just kept changing things here and there so as not to give yourself away. That isn’t the way a hero who is trying to save the world acts.”

  “How does a hero trying to save the world act?” The Origamist’s face was passive, but his words were biting.

  “He rushes in and fights,” the Puppeteer said. “He learns of the problem, and he goes on a quest to find a solution. He collects friends to help fight the encroachment. He—”

  “He, he, he,” the Origamist interjected. “He does this; he does that. What about her?” He pointed hard at Abend.

  “What about her?” The Puppeteer waved his hand dismissively.

  “How does she fit into your hero narratives?” The Origamist stared at Abend. “She’s not a damsel in distress; she’s not the hapless maiden; she’s not the lamenting lover; she’s a hero in her own right.”

  “Fine.” The Puppeteer flourished both hands above his wooden hat. “Then, she goes on a quest to find a solution. Gender doesn’t matter in these things.”

  “Doesn’t it?” The Origamist raised an eyebrow and stared at the Puppeteer.

  “Of course it doesn’t.” The Puppeteer said the words, but a thought flared in the furthest recess of his wooden brain. He remembered all of the hero stories he could think of, and each and every one used the pronoun “he” to describe the hero. Sure, here and there, “she” appeared, but usually as a side note to the genre or an experiment, but the dominant form was masculine, always masculine. “I mean, it shouldn’t matter.”

  “Exactly!” The Origamist became adrenalized. He paced quickly along the length of the table, pointing at various blue dots as he moved. “And these, these prove that the change is occurring.” He stopped in front of Abend. “And she proves it too.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” the Puppeteer continued to argue. “For all we know, you made her with the First Story. You could be making them all.”

  “You have the First Story.” The Origamist’s words echoed far longer than was usual for such softly spoken words. The Angler put his hand in his slicker pocket and felt the smooth stone contained therein. The Puppeteer thought hard about the timeframe. He identified when he had become aware of Abend and how long her story had been told, and he knew that he and the Angler had been in possession of the First Story when Abend was conceived.

  “We could have done it accidentally,” the Puppeteer softly rationalized. “Like the destruction of the City.”

  “You didn’t destroy the City,” the Origamist corrected. “That was something else entirely.”

  Under their feet, the sea kept moving, undulating, flowing, but on the deck, nothing moved, save the wind, which was neither chill nor comforting.

  Chapter 71

  “Is it gender?” Matt asked, piercing the thick silence that had engulfed his room. The images in his mind fluttered and dimmed but then pulsed, renewed, and grew stronger. “Not gender,” he whispered. “Not exactly.”

  The ideas came freely, expressively, openly, and he felt their power. It was full of freedom, of self-discovery, of imagination. It bolstered him, filling him with energy, with determination. He sat up straighter, his head a bit higher.

  “It’s partly gender associations, identity, but it’s more, so much more than just biology.” His voice, underneath the silence, was excited, passionate. This was John’s story, his real story. The story he had been trying to write the entire time that Matt had known him. This was the story to end—or to start—all stories.

  John had always hidden part of himself from Matt, and Matt thought he had understood why. A tense home life, a violent public life, a complete and utter lack of understanding from the world—take your pick, Matt thought. Any one of those things would make someone want to run and hide. Even from his friends—or friend. His one true friend who didn’t really see the story until…

  “I need to figure this out.” Matt stood and paced, his notebook in hand. His fingers furiously flipped through the pages, trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle, the key to the lock, the solution to the riddle. What am I missing? he thought.

  “The other thing,” he whispered. “I’m missing the other thing that’s not gender.”

  This was it. This was everything. If only he could just figure out, from John’s notes, from being John’s friend, from John’s stories, what secret was undisclosed.

  The stories were jumbled. They went in so many directions at once. Was that because John had taken so many of Matt’s ideas? Was Matt the very reason the secret was seemingly even more buried than in the beginning?

  “No,” Matt said, his voice no longer a whisper. “That’s not it.”

  He went deeper, further into his subconscious, the place where his own stories came from. John had taught him that—how to delve into the dark places of yourself. It had never even occurred to him to ask how John knew to do this. It was just so exciting, so freeing, and he needed the freedom. Maybe just as much as John needed it. Maybe more.

  “Is that it?” Matt stopped pacing and flopped back to the floor, his fingers tracing words from the notebook, his mind filled with new inspiration.

  Chapter 72

  Flux 2.0

  Flux awoke to find he had changed into a girl overnight. Not just any girl, he was Emily, the girl he dreamed about every night—well, most nights, when he was not having a nightmare about being in school naked or forgetting about a test or flying. He liked the flying dreams the best. After all, who wouldn’t want to fly rather than be naked in school?

  He stood up, uneasy on his new female legs. His boxer shorts and t-shirt were far too big now, and he had to keep pulling at them to keep them from bunching. In the mirror, he saw Emily. Her blonde hair, her clear blue eyes, her perfect lips, which weren’t quite as red as he remembered; then they were as red as he remembered.

  “I can change shapes,” he muttered to Emily’s reflection. He concentrated, and the reflection became his own, but the mousy brown hair quickly became much richer; his sunken cheeks became fuller; his jawline strengthened, as did his chest, arms, and legs.

  Donning his baggiest clothes, which were necessary for his increased bulkiness, he went into the world.

  Maybe a meteor hit just outside my bedroom window, and the radiation… he thought but dismissed the idea. Surely, he would have been disturbed by a falling meteor. Maybe a radioactive insect had crept into his room while he slept and bit him? That didn’t make sense, though. Wouldn’t he have turned into a human
version of the insect? After all, that was what happened in the comic books. What would give him the power to change shape?

  “A radioactive chameleon?” he whispered out loud and then shook his head.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he finally concluded. What difference did it make? He had powers. Where they came from was secondary and, ultimately, useless knowledge. What really mattered was how he used these powers. He could fight crime; he thought about getting a colorful costume and patrolling the streets of his hometown, making them safe for… Of course, he lived in a small town with very little crime. He could move to a city, a big city, and his costume would be black and gray so that he could merge with the night. He would prowl the streets, enacting justice on evildoers. Of course, his parents would never let him move to the city before he graduated high school. Was that why so many superheroes had no parents?

  He thought about Emily, which he did periodically throughout the day, and his baggy clothes, which fit his new buff body, were baggy again. He looked down and saw his female form.

  “Hey, Emily!” It was Emily’s best friend, Courtney. He wanted to run away, but he feared that his pants would fly off if he did. Instead, he pulled at his clothes and waited. “What are you wearing?” Courtney asked as she crossed the street.

  “Hey, Court—” His voice was still his own. He coughed and held his throat.

  “Are you sick?” Courtney slowed her pace, her face awkwardly contorted by concern and a desire to stay away.

  Flux nodded and pointed to his throat.

  “Okay, well, feel better.” Courtney waved but did not approach, and as she was walking away, said, “Your makeup looks great bee-tee-dubs.”

  Makeup? Flux touched his lips, remembering the bright red he had added. He touched his hair. Too dry. Then his hair was smooth and lustrous.

  “Wait,” he said and then became a boy again, but his too slight boy form. He puffed up and filled out his clothes much better.

  Maybe an actor? he thought. I could play any part. He concentrated and tried to turn into an action star, but nothing happened, save for a slight increase to his already pumped muscles. Hmm? He mused and looked at his reflection in a storefront window. He concentrated and tried to turn into his favorite actress. Nothing happened, save for his reflection becoming the slightly more colorful Emily.

  “I can only be myself or Emily? What kind of superpower is that?”

  He walked on, coming to his mother’s store. Maybe she would have some insight into all of this. Of course, if this were a comic, then he should try to keep his secret identity a, well, a secret. Naw, he concluded that he needed his mother’s advice. A silver bell tinkled as he entered.

  “Flux, is that you?” his mother asked, and he realized that he was still in Emily’s form. He tried to shift, but nothing happened. He was stuck.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “I like the new makeup, but honey, you need better fitting clothes.” His mother fluttered around the store, picking up dresses that her son could try on. Flux smiled as big as he had ever smiled and wished he hadn’t scared Courtney off. It would be great to shop with his best friend.

  Flux stirred and woke. He was still himself, still the slight boy he had always been. He stood up and walked to the mirror, hoping against hope but knowing it was impossible to see Emily’s reflection.

  Chapter 73

  Parley

  “We can’t do this alone.” The Puppeteer’s hollow voice pierced the silence with a splintery force. “We need the Council of Aspects.”

  “We have a Council right here.” The Origamist indicated the four of them.

  “Neither you nor the Angler is a Council member, and Abend is…too new.” The Puppeteer tried to sound sincere, but his disdain floated on his words like an early morning mist on the sea.

  “It’s that sort of thinking that is propelling the change,” the Origamist chided.

  “What kind of thinking?” The Puppeteer jumped off the barrel and clinked onto the deck. “Tradition, structure, organization? That kind of thinking is what preserves Creativity.”

  “That kind of thinking is what is destroying Creativity.” The Origamist pointed once more at the map. Blue dots continued to appear.

  There was a long silence. The wind continued to blow, the sea continued to flow, and the Aspects continued to think.

  Time is growing short, thought the Keeper of Ways as he watched his map fill up with dots.

  We must act soon, thought the Origamist, or Creativity will cease to exist. He tried to keep his desperation hidden.

  I really wish the others were here, thought the Puppeteer as he wrung his wooden hands.

  I don’t belong here, thought Abend as she tried to understand her place in the world.

  “We should call the rest of the Council.” The Angler’s voice was strong, clear, and powerful. “It’s the only way forward. All of us together.”

  Every eye turned to the Origamist, who stared off into the mist rising from the water. He thought about the others. The Toy Peddler could be convinced. His storyline was rife for an updating anyway. The Sister of Monsters, though? Her storyline was never well defined. She was often the little girl in danger, but just as often, she was the monster endangering the little girl. That dichotomy was complex and defied easy definition. She should see the wisdom in loosening constrictions.

  The Origamist stared at the sea for just a minute longer than it took him to come to a decision. “Fine. I will summon them as I did you.”

  ⚬⚬⚬⚬⚬

  The Sister of Monsters arrived at the cave first. “As good a place as any to start.”

  “So, we’re just going to pick a cave and go in?” Baba Vedma, followed by the others, joined the Sister of Monsters. “Do you understand the power of these caves? This could be very dangerous.”

  “What choice do we have?” The Sister of Monsters stepped into the shadow of the cave. The others paused for just a moment; then they all followed.

  “What the…?” Baba Vedma exclaimed as they stepped onto the deck of the ship.

  “Calm down.” The Puppeteer stepped forward, his hands raised defensively. “We called you here to talk.”

  “Talk! Talk!” Baba Vedma shouted, and a crash of thunder echoed in the distance. “Talk about what? How those three destroyed our world!” She pointed where the Origamist huddled with the Angler and the Keeper of Ways. Electricity tickled at the damp wood all around them.

  “Please, Baba Vedma.” The Puppeteer took the old woman’s hand in his own, his unfeeling fingers trying to wrest a bit of compassion from the craggy knuckles. “Just hear them out.”

  The Sister of Monsters stepped in front of Baba Vedma, her bulbous eyes full of intent. Baba Vedma’s rage slipped into thoughtfulness as she glanced at the Origamist’s palm, which still held a slip of parchment Baba Vedma recognized immediately. She also noted the stone the Angler was holding.

  “All right.” The Sister of Monsters turned when she felt her stare had achieved its purpose. “Since we’re on a ship in the sea, maybe a parley is advisable.”

  “That’s all we ask.” The Origamist stepped forward, static crackling along the surface of his robes as he moved. “There is much we need to discuss.”

  “Why did you do it?” Baba Vedma asked, lighting forking her words toward anger and a desire to truly understand.

  “Perhaps Abend could explain better.” The Origamist turned toward the young girl standing off to herself, trying desperately to merge with the shadows.

  “Me?” Abend stepped even further into the recesses of the ship’s deck. The others turned to her and waited.

  Chapter 74

  Wizards and Dragons

  Dragon Valley was home to a lot of things: impressive architecture, fascinating ruins, and exhilarating museums, but it was the market that drew customers from every other part of the world. It was the largest, most eclectic collection of goods in the world: silks from the East, spices from the South, minerals fr
om the North, and literature from the West.

  The only thing that might rival the grandeur of the market, at least, in Abend’s eyes, was the University of Mystics. Currently in his fifth year, Abend had come to Dragon Valley to study at the University. It was all he had ever wanted in life. He had worked from the time he could read and write to learn all the magic he could, and it had paid off. While anyone could learn basic magic, not just anyone was accepted to study at the University.

  Abend walked through the crowded market and absentmindedly glanced at the new books. He tried to turn his mind away from the exams, which were due to start within the hour. After that would be the graduation ceremony, and then he would be a full-fledged wizard. He would go out into the world and offer guidance and magical assistance to everyone. He might get a position with a king or maybe his own magic shop. The opportunities were endless—of course, all of that was contingent on passing the exams.

  He wandered the market until the hour struck, and he then hurried, although he had plenty of time, to the testing arena. The other candidates, three in all, were just arriving as well. Abend took his place in line, just behind the curtain that separated the waiting area from the rest of the arena.

  “What do you think the exam will be like,” Carlotta, a fellow fifth-year, asked.

  “I heard it’s dragons,” Simon, a fourth-year who had skipped ahead, responded.

  “What about dragons?” Eliza, the final candidate and a fifth-year, asked as she stopped fiddling with her robes at the sound of the word “dragon.”

  “I heard that we have to tame one.” Simon could barely control his excitement.

  “Tame a dragon?” Eliza’s alarm was palpable. It nearly ate up all the air in the waiting area. Abend thought to pull back the curtain to allow more air, but the thought of a dragon on the other side held him in place.

  “Is that even possible?” Carlotta flipped through a small notebook she had tucked in the sleeve of her robes.