Saving Fable

by Scott Reintgen

  “A little too far that time. You sound like a professional wrestler.”

  Mrs. Pennington threw her hands in the air. “It’s no use. I’m not cut out for being mean.”

  Indira shrugged. “Maybe that’s a good thing. Let’s try it again.”

  Practice. That was the theme of Indira’s next few weeks. She practiced being a good daughter to Mrs. Pennington, who needed to practice her own mothering techniques. Indira hadn’t realized it at first, but the adoption process was the Penningtons’ audition. If Mrs. Pennington and Patch wanted to get into a story of their own, they would do so by proving their talents while taking care of Indira. Mrs. Pennington even confided in Indira that there would be an unannounced test scenario at some point.

  So they went through dating advice (awkward), grounding procedures (not fun), and how to handle eye rolling and sarcasm (kind of fun). One benefit was that Mrs. Pennington also started giving Indira a standard allowance for helping around the house. It didn’t hurt to have a little spending money whenever she visited Fable. Indira thought Mrs. Pennington was already a pretty great mom, but like every character, she still had work to do.

  Indira also practiced being a good older sister to Patch. It wasn’t hard to remember the way David had cared for her. She took those memories and tried her best to be the kind of older sibling he had been. She read bedtime stories, played pirates, and corrected his spellings of words like insect and telescope. Indira was starting to realize that the magic of Fable operated in the background of everything. The world or fate or some other invisible force had tugged her into relationships that, if she chose to really learn from them, would sharpen parts of herself that she didn’t even know were in need of sharpening.

  She didn’t forget her First Words, either. Every cage has a key. Whenever the day threw frustrations her way, she would breathe deeply and remember that the key to this cage was working harder than everyone else. If she could do that, she might just become a protagonist.

  Every week or so, she’d write up a quick letter to David, too. A few updates and funny moments. She missed her older brother and knew it must be hard for him without their weekly morning visits. He never wrote her back, but Indira didn’t blame him. It couldn’t be easy to think about Indira pursuing her dreams in the one place he’d always wanted to go.

  It wasn’t difficult to avoid Maxi at school. Sometimes the girl even skipped out on their morning class with Mr. Threepwood. Indira found herself very thankful that she didn’t have to avoid Phoenix too. They spent a good amount of time between classes together. She’d learned that if she could get him to laugh hard enough, he’d actually cough smoke out like a dragon. From then on, she made it her personal mission to get him to belly laugh at least once a day.

  Instead of holding a grudge against Maxi, Indira spent time being a good friend to the other people she met. Margaret shadowed her through the halls, and before long the shy girl felt comfortable enough to add her own opinions to their discussions. Indira kept visiting Gavin Grant at the Ninth Hearth until he recovered fully and rejoined their classes.

  Gavin loved soccer and telling stories. He also had a knack for making crude jokes, which he practiced during each visit. She loved watching him practice juggling tricks with his worn soccer ball. He had the widest smile she’d ever seen and never took things too seriously (even his own death).

  The rest of Indira’s time and energy went into becoming a better character. She took things “a page at a time” in Mr. Threepwood’s class, learning first how to be a character who always took action and then learning the power of being misunderstood. He had even taught them a new favorite saying: “Loyalty leads to bravery. Bravery plants the seed of self-sacrifice. And self-sacrifice is the highest call of every character in every story.”

  After making them recite the mantra each morning, he would boom his lectures with passion. He reminded them every day that every character had a story. He reminded them that if they could have an impact on even one reader, they’d be doing their job. Indira loved the advice, but she also started noticing his tendency to spend more time working with his protagonist students. He continued to talk about potential and possibilities, but Indira began to feel that his eyes, like most eyes, were for the bright, shining students in their golden jackets.

  And each day Alice’s class on narrow escapes was, well, inescapable. Indira would turn a corner and find herself sliding down into some random basement or being escorted by odd cats that spoke only in riddles. Alice would give them some brief instructions before vanishing from the room, encouraging them to attempt more and more daring escapes. Usually, their exits were as strange as their entrances.

  Her most effective teacher turned out to be Professor Darcy. He did not seem prejudiced against his class of side characters. Each day he took them through exercises in the Rainy Courtyard with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy. Indira learned to flutter her lashes and look disinterested (for the sake of gaining still more interest!) and proved quite proficient in improvised one-liners.

  Her least effective teacher, though, was definitely Dr. Montague.

  He had seemed disinterested in teaching side characters that first day, but now he wore his annoyance on both sleeves. Often, he dismissed the class early or posted cancellations. Indira and the rest of the students were made fun of as side characters without much of a purpose. At one point Dr. Montague even reflected, “After today’s performance, it would be an insult to side characters for me to call you side characters.”

  Her favorite class of all turned out to be Weaponry. It was an independent study, which meant she could go by herself whenever she had the time to go. Brainstorm Ketty had written in a request for a minimum of two hours of practice each week. The first time Indira set eyes on the Arena, she knew it would be one of her favorite places.

  The massive room was about the size of a football field. Thick ropes sectioned off different challenges and practice areas. That first day, a hulking protagonist with spiked blond hair performed lunges with a spear in one corner. Opposite him, a boxing class was in progress. Indira spied a rather tan-looking man at the center of the Arena and went over to report.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Indira Story.”

  Up close, the man looked too tan. He had combined natural processes with unnatural ones that left his skin looking bright orange. Indira could smell the tanning oil from ten feet away. She noticed a massive, unstrung bow set on a table behind him. His eyes were trained on a pair of sword fighters. “I am Odysseus,” he said without looking at her. “What’s your weapon?”

  Indira slipped hers from its belt loop. “A one-handed hammer.”

  He spared it a glance, grunted, and gave a nod. “First time here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tutorial first,” he explained. “Stand on the black square over there.”

  Indira obeyed. The square reminded her of the dragoneye they’d used to travel from Origin to Fable. She took her place on the square and tightened her grip on the hammer. Odysseus twisted his bronze bracelet and punched a button. Something beneath their feet thundered with power. Indira could feel the floor vibrating.

  “Fight first. We’ll make some decisions after that.”

  “Fight who?” Indira called back.

  But the answer appeared in a blink. The Arena vanished, and Indira was facing two angry humanoids. They were a little taller than her, and each wielded a wooden club. Indira tightened the grip on her hammer as they came toward her, fanning out.

  I have no idea what I’m doing, she realized.

  One of them let out a little chirp, and both lashed forward. Indira caught the overhead blow of the one on the right and kept her feet moving away from the one on the left. Another swing, another block, and she brought her own hammer curling low. It nailed the creature in the hip but left her vulnerable. The second one brought its
club down on her shoulder, and she crumpled into a roll. Pain seared through her side, and she came stumbling to her feet.

  The creature pressed. She fended off a rain of blows, her arm growing more tired with each one. It pushed her farther and farther back until the other had recovered. Now both creatures grinned as they advanced, struck, and pushed past her defenses. Indira blocked a final swing before the hammer slipped out of her trembling fingers. One of the creatures slid forward and cracked her on the side of the head…

  …and she blinked back to reality. She was on all fours, gasping into the dirt of the Arena. Odysseus stood beside her. “Not bad,” he said. “You’re all arms, though. Feel that sting in your biceps?”

  Indira nodded. She felt a lot of stings in a lot of places.

  “You were letting your arms do the work. A good fighter uses every muscle. A good fighter throws her hips into blows and moves her feet on defense. It saves energy.”

  “It wasn’t fair,” Indira gasped. “There were two of them.”

  Odysseus smiled. “In time there will be five, then ten, then twenty.”

  Indira spat on the ground. Her mouth was dry and her muscles were sore. She couldn’t have been fighting for more than thirty seconds, though.

  “Tired?” Odysseus asked.

  “Do it again,” Indira said, putting herself back on the square.

  Odysseus laughed. “That’s the spirit. With your weapon and your size, I will teach you Bartitsu. Rule number one: disturb the equilibrium of your assailant.”

  “Equilibrium?” she asked. “Assailant?”

  “Balance. Make your goal to get the attackers imbalanced. Use momentum. Nudge. Trip. Sweep legs. Whatever it takes. See if that makes a difference. We’ll add rules from there.”

  She earned a series of new bruises, but in her third fight she managed to knock one of the creatures out cold with an undercut. She left the Arena grinning.

  Practice became Indira’s new mantra. She visited the Arena whenever time permitted. All the frustrations of being a side character vanished when she was sweaty and sore. She liked that. As the weeks ticked by, she became a better character, a better sister, a better daughter, and a better friend. She wasn’t too bad with her hammer, either. All that practice and growth turned out to be really important. It’s one of the few ways to prepare for life’s challenges.

  Especially when a bad day comes along.

  The tricky part about bad days, my dear reader, is that they so often start off just like the good ones. Indira ate granola in her yogurt for breakfast and taught little Patch how to butter his own toast and even had a chance to go on a morning walk with Mrs. Pennington. Fable still existed as two separate cities, with one half hanging upside down in the sky, but Indira thought it looked on the verge of a change. Like fall leaves just before they start to turn, Fable seemed ready to search her wardrobe for something dramatic and different.

  The first bad sign came after she’d parted ways with Mrs. Pennington and was walking the city streets toward school. She passed a wall of posters and graffiti, halting at the sight of a new addition. A missing-person poster.

  The boy had golden curls, wide eyes, and a smile that was all sorts of crooked. He looked vaguely familiar, but Indira couldn’t place the name. “ ‘Allen Squalls,’ ” she read aloud. “ ‘A second-year wizard, Allen had recently been demoted to the cameo track at Protagonist Preparatory. Allen was last seen outside the Cliffhanger Hotel. If you have any information…’ ”

  Indira shivered as she read. She’d forgotten that in a place like Fable there was still a chance that bad things could happen. She found herself glancing suspiciously down every alleyway as she headed to school.

  Her morning habit was to visit Hearth Hall. She’d tested out all the different hearths now. Comfort had become her personal favorite. If she felt cold, the fire warmed her up. If she was sweating and hot, the fire blew a fine breeze. She arrived this morning and took her customary seat at the Courage Hearth next to little Margaret, who had grown comfortable around Indira but was still working up her courage in facing the rest of the world.

  “Good morning, Margaret,” Indira said. Her friend looked up, smiled in her shy way, and returned her gaze to the fire.

  “Good morning,” she whispered back.

  They sat in mutual quiet, soaking up not warmth, but quiet encouragements and reminders of their good qualities. As Indira stared at the flames—her thoughts drifting briefly to Phoenix—a pair of heels clicked to life behind them.

  She turned to see Brainstorm Ketty strolling away from the Luck Hearth. The brainstorm’s dress was a scarlet trail, and those dual-colored eyes stood out in the firelight. Feeling more courageous than normal, Indira stood and called out, “Brainstorm Ketty!”

  The woman paused, glanced at a silver wristwatch, and smiled. “Indira Story.”

  Indira glowed at being remembered. “I didn’t know brainstorms used the hearths!”

  Ketty nodded back at the fireplace. “Everyone needs courage or rest or energy. I come in for luck every time I’m planning on making a trip to the Real World.”

  Indira’s eyes widened. “You’re going to the Real World? Right now?”

  “I am,” Brainstorm Ketty replied, glancing once more at her watch. “Most of our observations take place in the off-season. But if a hot new Author suddenly appears on our radar, we have to follow up and try to find a part for our characters to play!”

  “Well, I know you have to get going,” Indira said. “But I wanted you to know that everything’s been going really well lately. I think I’m getting better every single day.”

  Ketty faltered for a moment and then smiled. “Everything is going well? Isn’t that a fine surprise! I’ve started scheduling meetings with my students. Why don’t you come by this afternoon? We can discuss your progress.”

  Indira nodded excitedly. “Have a good day, Brainstorm Ketty.”

  She returned to the hearth, and Margaret stood, ready to go to class.

  “I kind of like her,” Indira said, watching the scarlet dress vanish around a corner.

  “She’s nice enough,” Margaret agreed.

  “Is she your assigned brainstorm?”

  Margaret nodded. “She took on a lot of side characters this year.”

  “What do you mean?” Indira asked.

  “The brainstorms all watch the auditions; then they select characters. Sort of like a draft.”

  “So why would she choose so many side characters?”

  Little Margaret shrugged. “Maybe she likes underdogs?”

  Indira nodded as the two of them began their normal route to class. After everything she’d experienced at Protagonist Preparatory, it was a big surprise to her that anyone did something just because they liked side characters. The two of them ducked into Mr. Threepwood’s class and headed for their normal seats. Before she could sit, though, Mr. Threepwood called her to the front. Indira blushed a little, making her way down the row as her classmates talked among themselves. The teacher flipped open a folder as she arrived.

  “Indira!” he said. “I’ve enjoyed having you in class, but I did have a little question about some of the homework you’ve been turning in.”

  She nodded, nervous she’d done something wrong. She’d been careful to do her best on everything. On some of the assignments, she’d spent hours researching different strategies before writing up her answers. Homework was less interesting than the scenes they sometimes ran in class, but Indira had been determined to get all of it right. The harder she worked, the more likely she could be promoted. And getting promoted was the only way to help David.

  “The last assignment was tough,” Indira replied. “But I thought my answers were okay….”

  Mr. Threepwood looked really confused now. She watched as he spread out all of her assignments. Indi
ra blinked in surprise. Three of the worksheets were filled to the brim with her handwriting, but the other pages looked completely blank.

  “This is your name at the top, isn’t it?”

  She squinted. He was right. The sheets that she’d assumed were blank actually had her name in the top corner. Only the premade worksheets Mr. Threepwood had printed for her still had writing on them. “I don’t get it,” Indira said. “I turned them all in….”

  Mr. Threepwood frowned. “I thought maybe it was a joke? Why turn the assignments in blank? I have plenty of students who forget an assignment here and there, but I’ve never had someone turn in a sheet with a name without writing anything else.”

  Indira shook her head. “But they weren’t blank….”

  Mr. Threepwood raised an eyebrow. “Surely you can see my dilemma? I have several sheets with your name on them and no answers. These are strong evidence against what you’re saying, Indira. I certainly can’t give you full marks for something like this.”

  “I promise, Mr. Threepwood,” she said. “I completed these assignments. I can even go through the answers with you. Just ask me the questions again.”

  Behind her, the door to the classroom had closed. It looked like most of the class had arrived, and the clock had ticked its way past the normal starting time. Mr. Threepwood arranged the papers and carefully closed the folder. “For now, your grades have suffered,” he whispered. “But how about you come visit me at some point and we’ll figure out what’s going on. You can do better than this, Indira. I believe in you. Every character has a story!”

  He gestured for her to return to her seat before turning to the board and writing out the instructions for the day’s lesson. Indira started back, still blushing. It wasn’t possible. Why were so many of the homework assignments she’d turned in blank now? She knew she had answered every question. What was happening?