The Book of the King

by Chris Fabry

  Under his coat.

  Owen’s father had never discussed what he should do if anyone tried to rob him, but Owen had read enough about robberies to know that his life was worth more than a few bills. He would give up the cash if he had to, but still he set his mind on a plan of escape. He could hit the man with an umbrella kept behind the register. He could lure the man to a big stack of books along the side wall and push them down on him. He could lock him in the upstairs back room.

  Owen said, “We have some really good books back in that section,” pointing him to the fiction room.

  But the man held his gaze. Something about his piercing blue eyes startled Owen but strangely not in a bad way. They warmed him like a mug of hot chocolate on a cold day.

  “I’m not here to buy a book,” the man said softly, clearing his throat. “I’m here to sell one.”

  “Well, my father is out right now, and he’s the one—”

  “What happened to your eye?”

  The question caught Owen by surprise. “A misunderstanding, I guess.”

  The man grimaced, as if living Owen’s pain. “Would you mind stepping out here for a moment? I want to show you something.”

  Owen’s stomach knotted. This is how it happened in stories. The robber asks you to do something, and the next thing you know you’re facedown in a pool of blood and he’s going through the cash register. But if Owen refused, the man would know he suspected something. Owen moved around the counter.

  “You’re limping.”

  “It happened when I was young. An accident.”

  The man squinted. “What sort of accident?”

  “A fire. My father can tell you. He’ll be back any minute, you know.”

  “Take off your shoe. Let me see your heel.”

  A bizarre request, but the man said it with such urgency and expectation that Owen felt compelled to obey. He had never shown his scarred foot to anyone other than his father. In gym class he wore pants he could take off over his shoes.

  But now Owen kicked off his shoe and sock in one motion. “I was burned here—all the way to the bone. They tried to reconstruct it. It’s grotesque, I know.”

  The man studied the wound and the scar tissue and mumbled.

  “I’m sorry?” Owen said.

  “Put your shoe back on . . . uh—what is your name?”

  Owen told him.

  “Well, Owen Reeder, for your courage in showing me something that clearly troubles you, I have a reward. Something I think you will like.”

  It should be said here that if you ever encounter a stranger (whether he is wearing a long coat or not) who asks you to take off your shoe, you should run screaming and flailing to get help.

  But though something was otherworldly about this aged character, Owen felt a certain strange connection with him, a comfort and ability to communicate that he had not enjoyed with any adults other than Mrs. Rothem. When he had his sock back on and his shoe snugly laced, Owen stood and looked the man in the eye.

  The moment a future astronomer first recognizes the Big Dipper or a future NASCAR champion sits behind the wheel of a go-kart is not often captured on camera. But because this is our story and we are telling it, we enjoy the privilege of describing the moment Owen Reeder’s life was changed forever. We know this moment is pivotal and important because of what happens to him in the future—the things he does, the battles he fights, the courage he summons, the foes he defeats. And it all began bizarrely in the front room of Tattered Treasures.

  Some say life cannot be dissected and inspected in such minute detail, that you cannot break someone’s experiences into such small bits, that it is the cumulative experience of life that makes up the whole. But those who say that have not met Owen Reeder, have not limped in his shoes, and never saw the book that slipped from under the strange visitor’s arm and landed with a whomp on the counter. It seemed to Owen that at that moment a pulse shot through him and through the shelves as well. The other books seemed to move, as if bowing in reverence.

  An intricate design like an old coat of arms lay deeply textured in the leather of the book’s thick, dark, wine red cover. It depicted a crowned lion with a scepter in his paw. His eyes blazed, and out of his mouth came a sword. Other grand aspects of the cover Owen would notice later, but these were what he noticed first.

  The pages were gilded with gold at the top and the bottom so they glowed even in the dim light of the bookstore. The front edges, however, were pure white, uneven and ragged. It was unlike any book Owen had ever seen, and, as you know, he had seen many.

  The very size of the book took Owen’s breath, as if the reading of it could take a lifetime. But to him, no book was too long, unless it was boring, and then even if it was short, it was long, if you know what we mean. If a story captured him, he wished it would never end. For instance, he loved War and Peace and Les Misérables, which each took more than a week and a half to read, even for a speed-reader like Owen.

  This thrill inside Owen, this kindling that had long awaited ignition, could not, of course, be seen by the naked eye (or even a clothed one). Not even a surgeon would have seen it in his liver or kidneys or stomach or large intestine or even in his pituitary gland, for it lay somewhere deeper than all this in a place not made of blood or bone or flesh. No, it lay in the deepest place of humanity—where mind, body, and soul connect.

  Owen ran a hand over the spine—as thick as three math textbooks—caressing the textured leather. “Some animal gave its life to cover this.”

  The man chuckled. “Several actually.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  The man leaned against the counter, still holding Owen’s gaze. “This book is not found. It finds. It is not simply stories and words; it goes deeper.”

  “If it’s so special, why would you want to sell it?”

  The man bit his lip. “Open it. Read it. Try it.”

  The thick, rich leather squeaked as Owen opened it, and it felt tight and new, as if he might be the first reader. The front matter consisted of a three-sectioned map, one showing mountain ranges, fields, and walled fortresses. The map to the right looked very much like Owen’s own community, and above the two was another realm with strange, winged creatures.

  So, Owen thought, this must be a fantasy. He couldn’t wait to dive in, so he turned to the first page.

  The Book of the King

  By Elias

  When the shadows of two worlds collide and the four portals are breached, know that the end of the reign of the evil one is near. Men will bring news of the return of justice and righteousness, along with the return of the Son. What has been two will be made one throughout the land. Make way a path in the wilderness for the Searcher. Open the portal for the Wormling, for he will be armed with the book.

  Let there be rejoicing in every hill and valley, from the tops of the mountains to the depths of the oceans. Let every creature that has breath, on earth and under and over, cry out. Victory is at hand. The shadows will be dispelled, and the Son will return for his bride.

  Owen trembled as he leafed through the pages. Everywhere he turned, passages read like prophecies, telling the future of some distant land—urging the people to be happy, to look forward to their day of deliverance. Other pages contained warnings or encouragement to do what was right. He could see the tome also contained stories of battles and heroic sacrifices made by warriors. Others appeared to be love stories with heroes rescuing damsels from certain death. Owen didn’t want to be rude, but he had become so immediately captivated that he wished he could just go somewhere and curl up by a fire to immerse himself in this treasure.

  Toward the back Owen found blank sections where it appeared the reader could jot his own thoughts, but who would write in such a book? Without perfect handwriting and lofty thoughts of deep insight, scribbling here would defile a work of such beauty.

  Owen shot a double take at the book when a page seemed to move of its own accord. This was not a shudder due to a dra
ft or breeze but the very rising of a certain section, like something lay beneath the page. Owen lifted the page and looked underneath, but it floated back, as if he had broken a spell.

  He closed the book and cradled it to his chest. “Sir, I’m not sure my father could afford what this book is worth. But if it were in my power, I would trade every volume in the store for it.”

  The man stared into Owen’s eyes. “You have no idea of its true worth. Nor of the danger it presents.”

  “Danger?”

  The man grasped Owen by the shoulders. “In the right hands, this book represents life and health and peace—all that is good in the land I call home. But should this book fall into the wrong hands, if its secrets should be taken to heart by the wrong entities, if it were somehow twisted for another’s scheme, its power could be used for the very evil it is meant to overcome.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The man’s eyes shone. “Have you sensed something lately? felt watched? overheard strange conversations?”

  Owen nodded. “Even here, in my own house.” Then he felt compelled to blurt, “And the other night, I should have died, should have fallen to my death. But I was saved, plucked out of the air by an unseen arm.”

  The man smiled. “The power of the King reaches even here. Far beyond the Lowlands.”

  “King? The author of this book?” Owen’s heart was stirred like the churning of the ocean before it unleashes its mighty fury on the shore.

  Before the man could answer, Owen’s father entered. Owen could immediately tell by the look on his face that his father had done something terrible. But what?

  “Yes?” Owen’s father said to the man. “May we help you?”

  “Father,” Owen gushed, “he brought us a book. A magical, wonderful book. I’ve never seen or read anything like it.”

  Something passed between Owen’s father and the man—words without sound, action without movement. It was clear that Owen’s father was repulsed by the man, but Owen had no idea why.

  His father reached for the book, but Owen pulled away. “We’re not buying books today, Owen. Too much inventory.”

  “But, Father!”

  His father glared like a man possessed. “Enough, Owen. We’re not buying any more.”

  Owen pressed the book even harder to his chest, as if letting it go would be like letting a treasure chest sink in the ocean. “Then let me buy it!” He turned to the man. “Sir, I have money put away—”

  “You have nothing,” his father snapped.

  “I have a dollar left over after buying the chair and a few more dollars I’ve saved from working here. Plus, I have the coin, the one my mother left me.”

  “Your mother?” the visitor said.

  “She died when I was born. She wanted me to have it—”

  “Give me that,” Owen’s father said, grabbing the book and holding it in front of him. His face turned white, and his mouth dropped open, revealing his darkened teeth.

  “Let the boy have it,” the visitor said with the authority of an armed regiment. Owen had never heard anyone speak to his father in such a way.

  Owen’s father stared at the intruder. “He’s my son, and I say take this away or I’ll burn it.”

  The man took the book, and Owen’s father wiped his hands on his coat as if it had left some residue. The stranger glanced at Owen and seemed to say with his eyes, “I’ll make sure you get this book. Someway. Someday.”

  The visitor leaned close to Mr. Reeder and whispered something Owen could not hear, but whatever it was left his father quaking and looking small and weak.

  And with that the stranger left.

  What had he said? Owen’s father would never tell, of course, but again because this is our story and we are telling it and we want you to know things that even our hero doesn’t know, we will tell you. The strange visitor said only two sentences, and they were enough to send a shiver down the back of any man.

  “Tell them I have found him. Tell them the battle has begun.”

  The bell above the door as the stranger left was the worst sound Owen had ever heard. He wanted to run after him and plead for the book. He had never been as exhilarated in his life as when he had that book open before him. Now he felt as if he had suddenly become a man, sadly watching the visitor walk away.

  Owen turned desperately to his father. “Please, it might be worth much more than he’s willing to sell it for. You’ve told me yourself that most people don’t know the value of their own property.”

  Mr. Reeder slumped into his chair behind the register. “I know books, and that one is worthless. We have too many as it is.”

  “But you didn’t read it. You don’t know what it did to me. It was as if something opened a spigot in my heart, and I can’t stop the flow.”

  His father sneered. “You read too much.”

  “I don’t read enough.” Owen’s world felt empty and cold and small. “I never knew how much I was missing until I saw that book. And I read only a small part. Just think what would happen if—”

  “You’d do better to get your mind back on things that matter,” his father said. “I went to your school this afternoon. The problem has been solved.”

  “Gordan? You heard about—?”

  “Your problems are bigger than some bully. You’ll see.”

  Owen tried to shift gears, tried to think about school and Gordan and his speech and whatever it was his father was hinting at. But he couldn’t. He was overcome by a yearning so strong that he couldn’t keep quiet. He had a feeling that book could unlock a door he hadn’t even known was there.

  “Father, strange things have been happening. I’ve heard things. Seen things. It’s as if my life has some kind of purpose beyond here, beyond anything I’ve ever imagined.”

  “You’re talking nonsense. That rap on your head’s made you a numskull.”

  “No.” And now the thoughts came so rapidly that Owen could not separate the ones he should share with those he shouldn’t. The whispers in the night. The voices below. Beings emerging from behind the bookcase. “The other night I was chased by some guys. I ran down a dark alley and suddenly I was stopped, my feet suspended. I looked down and saw a deep hole with concrete at the bottom. I had been saved by something, someone.”

  His father scowled. “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “I should have been killed, Father, but I wasn’t. And I can’t help but think—”

  “Just thank your lucky stars you weren’t killed. I ought to have known better than to let you go out alone—”

  “And there was something else—”

  “I give you the freedom to enjoy yourself—”

  “There was a voice, Father.”

  “—and what do you do?”

  “It whispered to me.”

  “You mock me!”

  “Did you hear me?” Owen was near tears, desperate to share this experience, desperate to be known by his father. “I heard a voice.”

  “You’re demented, hearing things, seeing things, dreaming when you should have your feet planted in reality.”

  “It said, ‘Courage, Owen.’ And when that man showed me the book, I swear to you, every page screamed at me to have courage.”

  “That’s your own mind telling you to quit being afraid of . . . whatever it is you’re afraid of. Listen to it.”

  “No, Father. No. This isn’t about courage to face little fears. It’s as if I was made for something more, destined for something—something really dangerous.” The stranger had warned of the danger of the book.

  Owen knelt by his father and touched his arm, but the man pulled back as if Owen’s hand were dead or dying. “Father, I believe there is more for me than what I can see here. I don’t know what that means, but I think if I have the courage to act on it, it could change my life. It could change our lives.”

  Owen’s father’s nostrils flared like a wild animal’s, and he ran his hands through his thinning hair. “I should never ha
ve taken you on.”

  “Taken me on?”

  “This is all there is, Owen,” his father spat. “There is nothing more. Do you understand? You have to live for this world, not something you’ve dreamed or heard from some voice in the night. Clear the cobwebs from your mind and get used to it, child. This is all there is.”

  Owen slept fitfully that night, hearing voices and dreaming. The fire. Red eyes watching him.

  He awoke with a pain in his foot and nearly cried out, the echo of his father’s words in his ears: “This is all there is.”

  He thought about all these things on his way to school, but he had no idea his father could be so intrusive, so violating, until he saw Mrs. Rothem’s empty desk. Her things were gone.

  Owen rushed to the office.

  “She’s been reassigned to another school,” the vice principal said.

  Owen could barely catch his breath. “Why? What did she do?”

  The man shuffled papers and would not meet Owen’s gaze. “Owen, you should get to class.”

  “Was it my father? What did he say?”

  “Hurry. You’ll be late.”

  But Owen did not want to go to class, and he could not imagine a school without Mrs. Rothem. He could picture nothing crueler than his father driving her out. And why would he? Why chase away the one person who had befriended Owen?

  Owen could not shake the thoughts of his father’s clandestine meetings, the moving bookshelf, the underground caverns, the footprints, the pursuing monster, and then his father’s reaction to the strange man and his book. Oh, the feel of that volume in his hands!

  As he limped out of the vice principal’s office and into the stream of humanity that was his high school, he felt like a stranger, an alien. Was this no longer his world? He ached for the book the way he ached to be held by the mother he had never known. What a feeling of hope the book had given him, encouraging words from his invisible helper.

  Why would Owen need courage? And how would anyone know he’d need it?

  Owen’s mind, as you can tell, was elsewhere, so he had no inkling of the gauntlet ahead of him. They waited like a pack of hungry wolves, ready to pounce. Owen’s limp was becoming more pronounced for some reason, his head bobbing, so it was easy for them to spot him in the crowd.