The Book of the King (10 page)

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.

“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 food 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.