by Chris Fabry
“Reeder!” Gordan said.
When your life is in danger, when there seems no way out, sometimes something primitive, even feral, takes over and gives you superhuman strength. Mothers have been known to lift cars off their trapped children, saving their lives. A rush of adrenaline can turn a wimpy, limping, bookish teenager into a warrior.
We wish we could say this is what happened to Owen—that he slipped off his backpack and swung it as a weapon, fending off his attackers. But in fact, Owen backed away from Gordan right into another wrestling bully, who pushed him into the middle of the hallway. The group took turns spinning him for a better look at his blackened eye.
“Excellent work, Gordan,” one said as Owen was pushed against a locker. “Really gave him a good one. Let’s do the other.”
Owen finally managed, “You know what’ll happen if you touch me again.”
“Think we’re afraid of being expelled?” Gordan said.
“They’ll kick you off the wrestling team,” Owen said.
Gordan stepped closer. “With all these witnesses? You jumped me, and I had to defend myself, right, boys? I couldn’t just let him pummel me with those great big fists.”
“He started it, Gordan,” someone said.
“I didn’t write what you saw in the paper,” Owen said. “Somebody changed it to get you mad at me.”
Owen noticed Gordan flexing his right fist and ducked just as Gordan swung at him. His knuckles slammed into the locker behind Owen’s head, and he yelped as Owen moved to break the gauntlet. He nearly got through, but someone grabbed his backpack at the last second and threw Owen to the ground. The air whooshed out of his lungs, and he lay squirming like a dying cockroach.
And here came Gordan. “It ends here, Reeder.”
Owen closed his eyes and braced himself.
You may be hoping the bell will ring or a teacher will appear. Such overwhelming odds seem to demand that someone unseen make his presence known. But let’s freeze the punch in midair and remind you of a scene in another book where a teacher answers his followers’ question of why a certain man was born blind. Were his parents or the man himself being punished? The wise teacher said the man was blind so a greater purpose might be served, that the work of God might be displayed in his life. The teacher then mixed some of his spit with the dust of the ground and put it on the man’s eyes. After he had washed in a nearby pool, the man could miraculously see.
In much the same way, what happened next with Owen was not for the sake of vengeance, nor was it to bring Owen or any other creature glory that is due to only one. Rather it was meant to show Owen he was not alone.
Because you have graced us with your reading attention for this long and because we can, allow us to lift the curtain on the invisible world as Gordan’s fist accelerated toward Owen’s jaw. It was inches from bloody contact when everything stopped.
During that interruption of the passage of time as we humans know it, a being marched forward and glanced at each combatant, stroking its chin and deliberately assessing the situation. It moved behind the bullies and inserted an invisible shield behind each head. It then reached inside Gordan’s belt in the back and yanked Gordan’s underwear up six inches, giving him a royal wedgie.
The being placed another invisible shield in front of each bully, including one at Gordan’s fist, then hovered over Owen and released the time block, which emitted a crackling sound, like someone being shocked.
The result was instantaneous. The boys surrounding Owen flew back against the lockers, the shields preventing them from hitting too hard. All crumpled to the floor, their faces pressed against the cold tile.
Gordan’s flight was more complicated. He had stooped to punch Owen, but his fist hit the invisible shield an inch from Owen’s jaw, and he rebounded toward the ceiling. He fell with a thump and tumbled atop a burly friend.
All this happened in less than two seconds.
Owen opened his eyes when no punch landed and caught a glimpse of Gordan falling from the ceiling onto his friend’s back and rolling to the floor. The thugs looked like rag dolls, but Owen knew it was only a matter of time before they stirred. He struggled to his feet and hurried off, adjusting his backpack, but as he passed Gordan, the big boy shot out a hand and grabbed Owen’s ankle. Owen nearly fell, but something buoyed him. He heard a sickening crackle at his feet, and Gordan released his ankle.
“The book, Owen,” someone whispered.
Or was it in his head? “Who are you?” Owen said.
As he started down the hall toward his first class, he heard the voice again. “Find the book.”
Owen heard moaning behind him and the sound of tennis shoes on tile—slow at first, then faster. He passed his classroom and limped as fast as he could toward the front door. He hit the push bar at what for him was full speed and raced for the street.
Owen had never been out of school without permission, yet here he was, taking to the streets like the adventurous, curious person he was. He wanted to stash his backpack at home, but his father would be there, forcing him back to school. If he did go back, he would have to answer questions about Gordan and the others, and he didn’t know what had happened any more than they did.
He had to find the man with the book, but what if he had already left town? He could be at the antique store that bought old books. The thrift store took in tons of donations each week. Maybe the stranger was there.
As he hurried, he sensed a lighter step. Someone or something was watching out for him, and that felt good. For all he knew, whatever force had whispered in his ear could have an evil agenda too. Perhaps it wanted him to rob a bank. Or assassinate some high official. Owen sensed this wasn’t true, but once his mind began working it was difficult to stop.
Walking the streets when he should have been in school was exciting. He felt a sense of freedom, and that made the day brighter and cheerier.
“Hey, Owen!” a voice called from the elementary school playground.
He saw swings, slides, and monkey bars among a grove of pine trees surrounded by a small chain-link fence.
“Owen, over here—it’s me!” a girl yelled, waving. Constance.
He rushed over, hoping she wouldn’t alert the whole school to his presence.
“Whatcha doin’ out of school? Aren’t you going today?”
He shook his head.
“Sick?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “A contagious disease.”
“What?”
“I really can’t talk right now,” he said.
Constance poked her pointed red shoes through the small holes in the fence. “I’m pretty good at climbing over, you know. Got a lot of practice at this place we stayed. An old hotel that was being renovated with a big fence beside it.”
“Don’t follow me. I just need to think, okay?”
“Two heads are better than one. I’ve heard people say that.”
“Maybe some other time,” Owen said as the school bell rang and the kids began to run inside.
Constance moved away from the fence, and he was relieved.
He kept walking, his mind jogged by something Constance had just said. He stopped at the corner and snapped his fingers. “That’s it! That’s where he has to be.”
“Where who has to be?” Constance said.
Owen turned and groaned.
Constance skipped alongside him, her red backpack bouncing. “Where are we going?”
“We?”
“You look lonely. I can help you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
“Constance—”
“Connie. My mother calls me Constance when she’s mad at me, and I don’t really like it.”
“Constance, you have to go back. If they find you out here, we’ll both be in big trouble. You don’t want to get me in trouble, do you?”
Our fates rest in our decisions. Most of us listen to facts and weigh situations, but others act more like stray puppies, following anyone who may have a hint of f
ood on them. These will not turn around and go home, no matter how dangerous the streets become.
Constance was this type, a stray pup whose mission, it seemed, was to complicate Owen’s life. For no matter how hard he tried to make her understand, no matter what he said to get her to turn and go back to school, she would not relent.
If he could just find the man with the book and get Constance back to school, everything would be all right.
But as we have said, fates rest in decisions, and Owen had no idea of the ramifications of this one.
So Owen and his little friend walked along, oblivious to danger.
Owen’s mind raced with what might be going on at school: Gordan’s shattered hand, his groggy friends, their accusing Owen of attacking them, his skipping school, his missed speech, Mrs. Rothem’s “reassignment.”
“What are we looking for?” Constance said.
Owen described the man and the book.
“Don’t you have enough books in that dreary store?”
A siren warbled over the tops of houses and stopped before a nearby dress shop. Whatever the trouble was, they appeared to have found it.
Owen tried to explain the appeal of the book.
“So where are we going?” she said.
“There’s only one hotel in town.”
“Doesn’t sound like the type of gentleman who would frequent a hotel. If his clothes are as ragged as you say and he is looking to sell that magical book, perhaps he’s found some other place.”
Frequent? Perhaps? Owen wondered whether anyone else Constance’s age used such words. “Somehow, I don’t think he would have sold the book or given it away. It meant too much to him. This is the only place that makes sense.”
They reached the hotel as dark clouds moved over the mountain. It had been a cheery morning up to this point, but the swaying trees and upturned leaves signaled a change.
Owen walked into the place—which was shabby compared to hotels you and your family may have visited—but we shall turn our attention to the little girl with the red backpack who waited outside, taking in the sights and sounds. A casual observer might ask why this child would be alone, gazing alternately at the trees and the second floor of the hotel, at the curtains and windows and maid carts with their rolls of toilet tissue and shampoo and soap.
This was one alert child, talkative, inquisitive, bright. Also stubborn, as evidenced by the fact that Owen had ordered her in no uncertain terms to go back to school, and yet here she stood. It is not easy to tell what a child will become, but anyone who gave this one more than a passing glance would have concluded that she would someday be beautiful, intelligent, adventurous, and caring. This last was evidenced in how she knelt to aid a ladybug scrambling up a stalk of grass. Constance let the creature crawl into her hand and travel the length of it and around her fingers. Then she gently deposited it into a crack in the warm concrete.
How much more would she be moved by the plight of a young man in search of not just a book but the very courage he needs to face the greatest evil the world has ever known?
“They haven’t seen him,” Owen said upon his return, his hands deep in his pockets.
“You don’t find good stories,” Constance said out of the blue.
Owen didn’t understand.
“The book,” she said. “You don’t find good stories. They find you.”
That was what the man had said!
“Maybe you should let the book find you,” she said, “rather than the other way around.”
Another siren wailed, this time closer, and they walked across the street, looking like brother and sister. The wind picked up, and more clouds blew over. Owen followed the sirens and cut through an alley, moving farther from home and school, as if drawn to something, as if the story was finding him.
The alley was made of brick—loose and difficult to navigate. Constance edged closer. Owen guessed it was because of the darkness and the foreboding trash bins piled high with black bags.
Constance coughed and put her arm over her face. “What’s that smell? It’s awful.”
It was acrid and sharp, like the first strike of a match. A wave of black smoke descended. He’d smelled this before.
“The B and B!” Constance said. “It’s burning!”
The B and B had once been a thriving bed-and-breakfast where—before the hotel was built—travelers could find a clean room and a hot meal served family style. But the town expanded, the section where the B and B was located grew older, and homes and businesses there became less desirable. Crime rose, people moved away, the new hotel opened, and the B and B catered to fewer people—many of whom were trying to hide from authorities.
The place was two stories high with a gable on each of its four sides. The roof shingles that remained were dark from the sun and weather, but many had blown away. Paint peeled, and rosebushes and ivy had taken over.
Today a fire engulfed the roof, and flames shot through the gables. Fire trucks formed a T at the corner, hoses stretched through the yard, and water shot at the flames hissing and smoking. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
Escapees huddled under blankets behind one of the fire trucks. One wore a bathrobe, another was in boxer shorts, and all seemed shaken.
Owen edged closer, listening to a woman talk to a fireman. “There was just this loud sound above us as something crashed into the roof; then came the awful smell and the flames and people screaming.”
“And everyone got out?” the fireman said.
“I don’t know everybody,” she said.
“There was a guy staying on the top floor in that corner,” a man said. “Came a couple of weeks ago. Haven’t seen him since the explosion.”
Someone asked what caused the fire, and the fireman said, “Sounds like lightning.”
“But there was no thunder,” the woman said.
“This close,” the fireman said, “the flash and the thunder come at the same time. Hole up there looks like a classic strike.”
“Could that man still be up there?” Constance said, her small voice cutting through the din.
“We can’t get in yet, young lady,” the fireman said. “That’s top priority when we do.”
Owen tried to lead Constance away before anyone asked why they weren’t in school.
But Constance asked the woman in the robe, “Did the man carry a big book with him?”
“Come to think of it, I did see him with a big red book under his arm the other day. He’s a strange-looking bird. Didn’t make a lot of eye contact.”
“And he stayed up there?” Owen said, pointing.
She nodded.
The black hole in the roof was just above his room.
Owen and Constance wandered a block to an abandoned park and sat on a rickety bench. Branches extended like the arms of a monster. Rusted playground equipment sat unused and weeds grew. The smoke from down the street turned from black to white, meaning the fire had finally been doused.
“Think he’s in there?” Constance said.
Owen shrugged. “Someone didn’t want him around here anymore.”
Constance swung her legs as they watched. “Your father?”
“I don’t think he’d go that far.”
The rain held off, but the sky remained dark. Owen hoped the firefighters would be done soon. He decided against telling Constance about the voice.
“Ever feel like you’re not supposed to be here?” Constance said. “I mean, some people are happy as clams, whatever that means. I don’t know if a clam is happy at the bottom of the ocean or wherever they live. I’m happy enough, but part of me feels like I’m supposed to be somewhere else. Doing other things. Or that part of me is in another place, and I’m just hanging here, biding my time. Does that make sense?”
Owen’s heart stirred. She made perfect sense. He felt that way all the time—lost though surrounded by the familiar. His life was just a long list of things to do, instead of having a purpose, instead of plugging into what
ever it was that he was supposed to plug into.
They wandered back down the street and found yellow tape running around the B and B, but the fire trucks and police cars were gone and the escapees had been evacuated. The sign above the stairway tilted at an odd angle, and a pile of burned furniture and shingles lay by the stairs. The place still smoldered, and it was difficult to get a breath.
“Going in?” Constance said.
“Alone, yeah.”
“No way.”
Owen turned to her. “I need you to keep watch. Plus, there might be holes in the stairs. Anyway, you don’t want to come out smelling like smoke. What would your mom say?”
She tapped her foot. “Five minutes, then I’m coming in.”
As Owen walked inside, he put a handkerchief over his nose to filter the smoky haze. The place was eerie enough without the fire damage, but with the electricity off and little light coming from outside, it was downright spooky. Water dripped from the ceiling. The firefighters had torn off the railing at the top, and there were holes in the steps. Owen tested each step, kept to the inside railing, and hugged the wall until he made it to the top.
Upstairs the floors were soaked and pieces of wood and clothing floated. Owen sloshed carefully toward the end of the hall.
Something banged.
Owen caught his breath. “Anyone here? Hello?” He pushed open the door to a bathroom and plaster fell, landing with a splat.
Finally Owen reached the man’s room. The door had been torn off and lay on the floor. He stepped inside. The bed was burned to a crisp—Owen could see the springs inside the soggy mattress. The bed seemed too small for a man the size of his visitor. Owen imagined him scrunched up, knees to his chest, cradling the red book, reading it day and night.
A mirror lay broken on the black floor. Owen saw himself in the shards and looked up at a hole in the ceiling that had burned all the way through the attic and out the roof so he could see the dark sky.
He knelt carefully and looked under the bed, then lifted the mattress to see if the book might have been sandwiched between it and the box spring. The charred dresser was empty.