Darius stood at the wooden doorway, watching his mother hang wet clothes outside their modest home. She snapped a wet towel in the warm breeze before fastening it to the line with some wooden clothespins. The day before, a severed line had left her with soiled laundry and an empty purse. Darius repaired the clothesline, but his mother had lost precious time. She moved quickly, with two baskets of laundry beckoning at her feet. Darius smiled, although his heart was saddened by the hard work she put in, day after day, without complaint.
It hadn’t been easy. In fact, it had been barely tolerable. Being outsiders, Darius and his mother, Miora, were hardly accepted by the people of this small village, reflected in the unattractive shack they had been given as lodging—a shack that just happened to lie on the outmost edge of town, hidden from view by a small slope in the valley where the village peacefully carried on its own business.
Over the years, Darius’s mother had done her best, taking whatever jobs she could to sustain them, but for fourteen years they had lived an unnoticeably poor life. He watched his mother brush a bead of sweat from her forehead and shook his head, biting his lower lip. Darius wanted nothing more than to change their status with these self-absorbed villagers, but he knew that even if he was able to procure a decent paying job in this forsaken town, his mother would not allow it.
Darius forced a smile as he exited the small house. “I’m off, Mother,” he said, throwing a soft leather bag over his shoulder. He stood almost a foot above her and bent down to give his mother a fond hug and kiss.
Her soft blue eyes, full of love, stared up at him, and her gentle hand brushed the wavy brown hair from his face. “Mr. Athus have much for you to do today?”
“Just the usual,” he grinned as he bounced off. He called back as he jumped over a small creek, “Cleaning! What fun!”
“Stay out of trouble!” He heard the words float up from behind and smiled back as he waved to her.
His mother was protective of him, and he guessed he understood. As he grew up in this obscure village, he had made few friends. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried, but it was almost as if the villagers were afraid of him. He never knew why, and his mother reluctantly and evasively answered when he would question her. “We’re not from here, and that scares them. It’s easy to be afraid of something you don’t understand,” she would say.
“What’s not to understand?” he would reply. “So we’re not from here. We have to be from somewhere, right?”
To this, his mother would simply smile, unwilling to say anything about their past. “We are where we are safe.”
He recalled the familiar conversation and chuckled. So we’re safe. Nothing exciting, but we’re safe. Resigned to his fate, he climbed the slope to the lazy village.
Brandor was a quiet town. Small shops with wares hanging in plate glass windows and houses with inviting porches lined both sides of a well-worn road made barren by wagons and travelers on foot. Large trees shaded the entire valley, and the stream that trickled by Darius’s house continued its bubbling journey through town. As he crossed a wooden bridge, he noticed two small fish wrestling to get the last bits of a dead bug, and he paused to watch the sunlight reflect silvery images across the top of the rippling surface.
“Morning, Darius,” came a gruff voice.
Darius’s tan face wrinkled tightly and his green eyes shot closed. How he wished he was a bug atop the water. He would gladly take his chances with the fish. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he could float along the stream and ride the currents far away from these insufferable people.
“Darius? Do you hear me, boy?”
The words cut into him like a dull knife through a piece of stale bread, and he sighed as he composed his face. Turning around, Darius faced the woman, plump and content, rocking on her front porch and knitting yet another shawl. He wondered what she did with all of them.
“Morning, Mrs. Keedle.”
“And I suppose your mother is almost done with the clothes?”
The woman reminded Darius of a bullfrog, croaking as it sits upon its lily pad. The green frock did nothing to deter the image that filled his mind.
“Yes, ma’am.” Darius resisted the strong urge to glare at her and sneer in bitterness.
The old woman did not like him and thought his mother nothing more than a rat to be shooed away…that was, until she was needed to do the dirty work for these ungrateful folks!
He bit his lip. “They are drying as we speak.”
“Good. I certainly hope she’s not late…again!”
Darius acknowledged her with a simple nod and turned up the path, heading toward the great tower where Mr. Athus would be waiting. He did not look back.
“Because she often is, you know!” The cackle stung at his back as the woman belched out the words, but Darius continued on his way.
As much as he disliked most of the people in this town, Darius had received favor in the eyes of the Keeper of the Book. Mr. Athus boasted complete charge over the Great Book of Brandor, and many had questioned his taking Darius under his wing, but that didn’t seem to bother Mr. Athus. No, he seemed to enjoy the bristle he caused in more than one villager’s spine, and Darius couldn’t help but smile as he thought of Mrs. Keedle the first time she learned Darius was “helping to guard the book.”
Darius laughed out loud. If only she had known—his true purpose at the tower was only that of a common cleaning boy. But since Mr. Athus had, on more than one occasion, proclaimed Darius as being his apprentice, Darius hoped his cleaning days were numbered. Until then, he faithfully returned day after day and only dreamed of the day when he might be honored with guarding the book himself. Then the townspeople will respect me. Then they will wash our clothes.
Darius reached the circular tower and opened the door to a small storage shed attached to the left of the tall stone structure. A cobweb stretched in front of him and ripped with the tension. A spider scurried up and into a weathered crack in the jam of the door, and after brushing away the remnants of the torn threads, Darius picked up a broom, mop, and bucket.
He leaned the broom and mop against a wall of ivy that wound its way up the side of the building and walked to the well only a few feet away. Attaching the old wooden bucket to a hook at the end of a rope, Darius lowered the vessel. He watched as the darkness swallowed it. When he heard a splash, he waited only a moment before cranking the well-worn handle and pulling up a full bucket of clear water. After taking a drink, Darius grabbed the bucket and returned to the shed. He reached inside and scooped a small pile of white dust from a lopsided sack and dropped it into the bucket. Stirring the water with his hands, lathery foam bubbled up on its surface. Darius closed the door to the shed, retrieved the mop and broom, and, carrying the bucket, entered the building.
“Good morning, Mr. Athus.”
Mr. Athus was perched atop a tall, wooden stool. He was writing in a large journal, sitting on an even taller desk that curved around and stood solid to the floor. As Darius entered Mr. Athus’s round face beamed, and he set his spectacles down on the desktop.
“Hello, Darius. I have something special for you.” Mr. Athus reached underneath the desk and pulled out a small book.
“What is it?” asked Darius as he set down his bucket and reached for the book.
“Dragons,” he replied mysteriously. “I bought it off of a peddler, passing through the other day.”
“Dragons?” Darius thumbed through the pages. “Are they real?”
Mr. Athus laughed heartily. “Of course, my boy. But I’d never want to meet one! Oh, and here’s your pay for last week,” he added, tossing Darius a silver coin.
Darius placed the coin in his shirt pocket, checking twice to make sure the button was secure. As thanks for Darius’s years of service, he received only a pauper’s wage, but it was all Mr. Athus could offer, and Darius dare not lose it.
Of more value, however, Mr. Athus taught him everything he knew. Denied traditional schooling, Darius knew more of this land than most, an
d the book on dragons was only one of many Mr. Athus had provided.
Darius rubbed his finger along the spine of the book, tracing each letter. “Are they as interesting as wizards?”
Mr. Athus’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I should say so!” He nodded and picked up his glasses, placing them squarely in front of his eyes and peering over the rim. “And I’ll teach you more about them after you’ve read the book.”
Darius placed the dragon book into his bag. “Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Athus smiled and went back to his writing, and Darius set to his chores. He placed the sudsy pail next to the wall at the base of a closed stairway that circled along the inside rim of the tower. Grabbing his broom, Darius climbed the stairs. He circled the tower almost three times before stopping on a landing one level below its pinnacle. He faced a wooden door whose only ornament was a thick metal ring held by the teeth of a dragon. This was where Brandor’s wizard had lived and was now Mr. Athus’s quarters. Darius paused at the door and gently touched the handle, with no intention of going in. This is where the wizard stayed, and he closed his eyes, imagining the wizard exiting his room dressed in wizardly robes to keep watch over Brandor.
One of his favorite lessons was that of the wizards. He had been taught that all villages were granted the presence of a wizard to watch over them. If the wizard was good, the village would flourish. If the wizard was instead a dark sorcerer, the village would be stagnant, barely alive at all, with fear alone the only motive for their existence and loyalty.
Brandor had fortunately been blessed with the kindest of wizards. For years he had exited this very room to watch over the people, caring for them like a father would care for his children. One day, shortly before Darius and his mother entered that inn fourteen years before, the wizard mysteriously vanished leaving nothing behind but the Great Book of Brandor and the explicit instructions to guard it—never let it leave the tower.
Darius sighed and continued up the steps, reaching the highest room. It was circular and not very large, the ceiling above rising to a sharp point. Small windows opened in all directions along the stone wall. A magical barrier prevented anything from entering except a soft spring breeze, but it was a spectacular place in which to view Brandor and all its surrounding areas. But Darius had seen these sights many times before. It was the center of the room that drew his eyes solidly in a gaze. No matter how many times he had seen it, he continued to wonder at its splendor. Atop a small pedestal covered with velvet cloth of the deepest purple lay the book, and poised above the open pages was an enchanted quill.
An important relic, the magical book held the town’s history and, in some strange way that Darius did not quite understand, its life. Written across its pages were the names and history of everyone who had ever lived in the town—everyone except Darius and his mother.
Darius watched, waiting for movement. If he waited long enough, he might catch the quill as it jotted down the next letter, word, or line of Brandor’s history. At the moment, the quill floated motionless with only the soft feathers caressed into movement by the gentle breeze.
“Come on,” begged Darius. All he wanted was to see it move, watch it glide across the page, but it remained motionless.
Disappointment was his only companion as he began to sweep the room, a chore he had done so many times before. When he finished, he paused before beginning the task of sweeping the steps—again, a task he had done more times than he could count.
Standing at the top of the steps, he looked one last time at the book. The quill began to move, and Darius dropped his broom, sending it sailing several steps downward toward the landing at Mr. Athus’s door. He didn’t care. He darted to the book and watched as it scribbled a few words. “Mr. Trim sold three bushels…”
Darius stood fascinated, not by the words being transcribed, but by the sheer magnificence of the feat itself. No one else in Brandor ever had the opportunity to witness such enchantment, and his body felt electrified as he watched the movement of the quill scratch across the page. It was a rare treat.
As quickly as it started, the quill once again stood still, and Darius paused. The exhilaration faded, and he sighed before walking down the steps and retrieving his broom. He had work to do.
When all the steps in the great tower were cleaned of dust, Darius swept the bottom floor, careful not to disturb Mr. Athus and his writing. Placing the broom aside, he picked up the pail of soapy water and began scrubbing the floor, thankful he had finished the upper room and stairs the day before.
It was tedious work, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed Mr. Athus’s company and was often distracted from the monotony of his work by some story Mr. Athus would weave of the town and its current goings-on. Today, however, Mr. Athus remained quiet as he wrote, and Darius was left to entertain himself as he sloshed more soapy water onto the stone floor.
Dragons, he thought. A thin smile touched his lips as he envisioned their grandeur: fiery tongues threatening their prey, their massive legs pushing up from earth-shaken ground as they took flight, and the terror they invoked as they soared about, wings outstretched, dominating the sky around them and casting a shadowy darkness on those unfortunate enough to find themselves beneath them. And they were real!
So deep in thought, the crimson that rained down upon him seemed only part of his imagination, its blazing glow a remnant of the dragon’s fire…until he heard Mr. Athus scream.
“The book!”
Darius eyes shot up, and he saw Mr. Athus running to the steps that led to the top of the tower. Jumping up to follow his master, Darius overturned the bucket of soapy water and almost slipped as he sprinted for the spiral staircase. Taking two steps at a time, he reached Mr. Athus’s side just as they entered the tiny room that housed the precious book.
Breathless, Darius stood dazed at the sight. The room was glowing from the crimson rain outside, but the book remained untouched. Mr. Athus reached for the book when a fiery ball appeared from a rip in the sky outside one of the windows, and a fierce creature shrieked forth from its blazing carriage. The screech caused Darius to collapse to his knees in pain. Throwing his hands over his ears to muffle the shrill noise, he watched Mr. Athus straining to reach the book. Unable to withstand the sting of the piercing sound, Mr. Athus fell unconscious, helpless into a heap on the floor.
The creature swooped through the barrier of the window, and a wave of hot air pushed inward against Darius’s face as the magical protection failed. With the fury of tornadic winds encircling him, Darius scrambled on his knees toward the book, clenching his hands tightly over his ears to avoid the same fate as his friend. The fiery beast turned its head toward Darius and hissed, its screams pulsing against Darius’s hands as he tried to protect his ears.
The beast moved directly over the book, hovering as it flapped its flaming wings and never taking its eyes off of Darius. There was no time to think. Darius ran for the book, releasing his ears and grabbing the precious treasure of Brandor. Pain shot through his brain, but before he could even attempt to run from the room with the book, the beast seized Darius’s hand with its talons. Hot fire burst through his hand, and Darius was frozen as he watched vines of crimson tendrils weave through his skin across his hand and over his wrist, forcing him to release the book. Before the book fell to the floor, the blazing creature snatched the book and shrieked once more. White flames filled Darius’s eyes as the sound penetrated sharply into his ears. Then everything went completely black, and Darius collapsed to the ground.
When Darius finally awoke, he found Mr. Athus sprawled on the floor nearby. Darius crawled to his side.
“Mr. Athus. Mr. Athus!” Darius gently rolled him over and patted his face.
Mr. Athus moaned and slowly opened his eyes, pain written across his face. Holding his head, he whispered, “The book.”
“The book!” gasped Darius. In horror, he turned and stared at the empty pedestal. “Mr. Athus, it’s gone! I tried to stop it, but…”
Mr. Athus pushe
d hard with his hands to force his body up, and Darius braced the older man to help him regain his unstable feet.
“Mr. Athus, are you all right?”
The older man dusted off his clothes. “I’m fine, son. Quickly! You must gather the village immediately. Now go. Run!”
Darius paused only a moment as he looked into his elder’s eyes. In all the years he had worked for Mr. Athus, never had he witnessed such concern in his friend’s eyes. Concern? No, fear! And for the first time in Darius’s life, his safe existence shattered with danger.
“Go!” demanded Mr. Athus.
Shaken back by the command, Darius tore down the steps and slid to the tower door across the wet floor. Slinging it open, he ran outside. Sprinting farther up the hill, he skidded to a stop beside a large bell the villagers had erected shortly after the wizard left. It was to be used only in an emergency to call the townspeople to the town hall, and Darius could think of no greater emergency than the loss of the Great Book. Tugging with all his might, Darius set the bell in motion, and in no time the entire valley was echoing with its chimes.
Darius then raced through the village, yelling that the Great Book was gone. He reached the slope that led to the small cottage where he and his mother lived and rushed to his mother’s side.
“Mother!” Darius screamed, trying to catch his breath as a sharp pain stabbed at his side. “Something terrible!”
“I heard the bell. What’s wrong?” Miora stood silent as her son relayed the morning’s events. “The Great Book…gone?”
“Yes! Hurry! They’re meeting at the town hall to decide what to do!”
Darius, with his mother by his side, reached the meeting hall. It was built much like the houses of Brandor, but octagonal in shape. As they walked inside, Darius looked at the large room. A tall podium and chair were positioned in front of the wall opposite the door, and benches formed an angular circle around the room like spectator stands for an athletic event. But this was not a time of cheerful competition, and Darius and his mother quickly took a seat near the podium among the crowded villagers.
Mr. Athus entered and stood behind the pedestal. The room immediately fell silent.
“I am afraid the news is true,” Mr. Athus said. “The Great Book of Brandor has been taken.” Gasps filled the air as he told of the fiery creature. “If we do not retrieve it soon, all will be lost. As you know, the Great Book of Brandor holds our history. Until now, I could only surmise, but that book also holds our…lives. It was our protection, but now…”
Whispers filled the room until one villager asked, “What do you mean, lives?”
Mr. Athus shook his head and lowered his eyes. “The Harper’s are gone.”
“That cannot be!” Darius heard the voice of a gruff man seated across the room.
“Can it not?” snarled Mr. Athus. “Do you see the Harpers here at our gathering? Look! Look for yourself!”
The crowd filled with whispers and sobs as the room was scoured for the Harpers, and a lump formed in Darius’s throat as he, too, could not find them.
Mr. Athus continued. “I know it is so, for I witnessed their house vanish before my very eyes as I came to this place, and the longer we tarry…” Mr. Athus closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “We have always known that our land has been linked to the Great Book, a link provided by our wizard himself.”
“It’s their fault!” exclaimed Garp, an older member of the village, as he pointed his gnarled finger at Darius and his mother. “We let them stay, and we should have sent them away!”
Darius’s mother began to tremble, and Darius put his arm around her shaking shoulder.
“That boy tried to save our book!” bellowed Mr. Athus, but his words were cut short as he looked at Darius. He slowly walked from behind the podium toward Darius and his mother, his eyes glued to Darius’s hand.
Conscious of Mr. Athus’s gaze, Darius removed his arm from his mother’s shoulder and began rubbing his hand and wrist. He had almost forgotten the incident. The intensity of the pain had subsided, but the vines of crimson left their mark, blood-red streaks embedded in his skin.
As Mr. Athus came closer, Darius said softly, “I tried to grab the book, but the creature…I couldn’t hold on. I just couldn’t.”
The room was dead silent as Mr. Athus went to Darius’s side. “Let me take a look at that.”
Mr. Athus examined Darius’s arm. Then placed his hand over his jaw, rubbing his mouth and chin in concentration.
“What is it?” asked Miora. “My son’s all right, isn’t he?”
Mr. Athus frowned. “I’m not sure. I’ve never seen such magic.”
“It’s dark magic, I say! He’s been marked!” yelled Garp. “All the more reason to send them out before another of us disappears! We are being punished!” Garp’s eyes burned through Darius, piercing his skin with accusation.
“The book is already gone!” Mr. Athus slammed his fist down on the bench next to Darius and then spun around, stomping to the center of the room. “Sending them away will not bring it back.”
“Then what are we supposed to do?” grilled Garp.
The flurry of comments thrown at Mr. Athus came from all directions of the room, and Darius wondered if he should take his mother away from this place as the hostility filled the air like a thick, putrid fog.
It was only Mr. Athus’s gaze that held him fast. Mr. Athus moved to stand directly in front of Darius and said nothing. The commotion continued until all eyes froze on the pair, and the only sound Darius could hear was that of his own heart pounding in his ears.
“We ask the boy.” Mr. Athus’s eyes did not leave Darius as he spoke with all calmness. “We ask the boy to retrieve the book.”
Darius’s mother gasped, and Darius was speechless.
“Why him?” asked Miora. “We have no connection here. As Garp said and others have concurred, we are barely even welcome.”
Mr. Athus smiled gently at Darius’s mother and laid his hand softly on her shoulder. “Perhaps…by some. But despite the cold reception you continue to receive, I believe you are meant to be here. Don’t you see? Your mysterious arrival only days after our own wizard’s departure cannot be coincidence. I believe you were destined to help.”
“Destined? How?” asked Darius.
“That I do not know, but as Garp has so cleverly if not callously pointed out, you are marked—tagged, perhaps, to retrieve our book. Besides, we cannot send one of our own. What if they should be unwritten as the Harpers have been? No, it must be you, Darius.”
Darius looked around the room, faces staring—some in fear, others in disgust—and tightened his jaw. He almost hated these people, but as he looked again at Mr. Athus and the kind strength that filled his gray eyes, he stood, his mother clawing at his sleeve. “I’ll go.”
“No! Darius! No!” Miora tugged vigorously at his arm.
“And what of his mother? We should send her as well!” screeched Garp.
Mr. Athus wheeled about on his heels and faced Garp. His thin eyes were like daggers. “You will cease this talk! Have you no soul? Are you so cruel that you would send her away just as we ask her son to save us? No! She will stay, and we will thank her for allowing her son to endeavor on such a dangerous journey.”
Darius sat back down and cradled his sobbing mother. “It’s all right, Mother. Mr. Athus is right. I have to do this. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” He silently hoped he’d fooled her as her face dropped limply into his shoulder, her body shuddering as she wept.
Chapter Three
The Shredded Page