The Book of the King (13 page)

Mr. Page pulled out an oddly shaped stone—or was it a piece of metal?—and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He tore a piece of cloth from Owen's jacket and dabbed away the blood. From another vial he doused ointment on Owen's wound and pressed his palm there and held it.

“Your wound is your strength, Owen. The very thing that held you back will now propel you toward the truth.”

“I don't understand.”

“Exit the rear of the store and make sure Constance gets home safely.”

“How can he walk when you've just sliced his foot?” Constance asked.

“He cut you, boy?” Karl moved toward them.

Mr. Page held Owen's foot tightly and whispered, “Let the gauntlet be thrown down now. So that you know what you're up against.” He whirled quickly, releasing Owen's foot, and with an expert throw sent the knife straight into Karl's heart. It went clear through him and stuck in a book behind him.

Karl smiled, his mouth twisted with evil, unlike anything Owen had seen. “And now has the Sovereign been brought low,” Karl said, his voice different, deeper, almost melodic. “And he shall feel the wrath—”

“Silence!” Mr. Page said. He reached toward Karl. “You will remain in your chains, mute, unable to communicate, until I have gone.”

Immediately Karl fell, writhing.

Owen's father burst in, eyes wild, filled with fear. He looked at Constance, then at Owen. At the sight of Mr. Page, he staggered back not in horror but in recognition. As if this were an important person he had seen before and betrayed.

Mr. Page turned to Owen. “Be careful to do everything I have told you. Understand and follow.”

Owen nodded, unable to speak.

Mr. Page wiped his bloody hand clean and examined Owen's heel. The scar remained from the fire when he was a child, the fresh scar from the cut also, but the skin had grown together and the blood had stopped. More bizarre, all pain was gone.

Owen's father said, “What have you done to Karl?”

Mr. Page's voice shook with emotion. “I hold no ill will against you. You were but a pawn in this scheme. Today choose what is right and good. Turn from evil and stand aside.”

Owen's father stared blankly, as if the words hadn't reached him.

Owen put his sock and shoe back on as Mr. Page rushed out the door.

Another scream. A blast of fire from the sky.

“Upstairs!” Owen's father said. “We must hide!”

Owen grabbed Constance and headed for the alley in the back, snatching the burlap sack from behind the shelf as he ran.

“Stop!” Mr. Reeder said. “Come back!”

Owen and Constance ran into the alley, Owen limping not because of pain but because of history. He had always moved this way. Now each stride freed him from what was known and what always had been. He was discovering a new way. Rather than dodging the trash that littered the alley, he flew over the wet cobblestones, chasing a new idea, a new thought.

The wind swirled Constance's hair as she panted, trying to keep up. She too pursued something she didn't understand but which was as clear to her as her own existence.

In the distance came another blast, like a car exploding, but to see it we must turn our attention from Owen and Constance to the now-deserted street where one man runs in the opposite direction from them.

As we pass the bookstore, glancing inside, we see Owen's father bent over Karl, lying on the floor with his mouth shut tight and his eyes staring. There is something wild and fierce about him, as if he is not a man at all but a being from another world who can absorb a knife through his heart and still live.

The ominous, roiling clouds shroud the hideous monster we glimpsed before—the one pursuing our heroes. Wings flap in the black clouds, air swirls like a tornado, and a howl echoes from the heavens.

Below, a man with blood under his fingernails races through the dark town, trying to elude the flying devil. How he wanted to accompany Owen and Constance. How he wished he could care for them and see them safely to their destination. How he wanted to tell Owen more, to reveal the truth about himself and about Owen and about the adventure ahead. But the man knew the boy needed the truth in bits slowly over time and that the worst thing he could do to Owen was to spill everything at once. That would overwhelm him. No, Owen needed to receive the strength at each leg of his long journey, each confrontation with evil and with truth.

Perhaps it was his mulling over of Owen's situation that caused the man's fatal mistake. Or perhaps he simply wanted the chase to end because he was old and weary of the battle.

Whatever the reason—and we shall not grant the whole truth of the matter here, for you could not yet comprehend the mixture of sadness and wonder in the man's heart—he slowed as he reached a gravel pathway that led into a wood. He was in the open now, vulnerable, not seeking refuge.

Rather he continued until he came to a knoll, a gentle rise in the earth with tall grass waving in the circular wind, and stood at the top as if simply giving up. As he reached the apex of that knoll, he took off his hat, revealing gray hair. Here was a man of such dignity that he refused to die without facing his enemy.

He knelt and reached into his shirt pocket, producing the object he had removed from Owen's heel, and stretched it toward heaven, lips moving in a wonderful cadence and tears rolling from tired eyes. His hands trembled, his eyes closed, and his heart broke.

The horrible being with red eyes and a taste for blood escaped the darkness and fell like a stone, finally hovering directly over the man. Hatred filled the face of this scaly monster. “You thought you could escape? You thought you could hide them?”

Like a lamb before its shearers is dumb, so the man on the knoll was mute.

“Now you will see the end of it,” the beast hissed. “And it will result in my own reign. Putting the book in his hands has sealed his death and with it the death of everything you love.”

The man opened his eyes and threw back his head in defiance of the Dragon. He dropped his hands to his sides and braced himself.

As we pull back, grass waving in our wake, we see this ancient struggle with new eyes. Innocence. Goodness. Kindness. All embodied in this one man kneeling on the knoll. Above him, heart dripping with hatred and violence, is the ultimate enemy of goodness.

You may desire to turn from this scene as hideous orange flames burst from the mouth of the beast and consume the man. But linger here we must as the fire purges the earth of this figure.

The Dragon descends to the very top of the knoll, scorching the grass so nothing is left alive on the hallowed spot. And when the fire ends, when the hatred is satisfied—at least for now—the Dragon cackles and rises, cutting through the dark clouds.

You're running faster,” Constance said, panting. “Whatever Mr. Page did to your foot helped.”

Owen nodded and slowed to a walk. “We can cut through the park to your house.”

The sky wasn't as dark now, and there were even patches of sunlight. At the end of one street, Owen pulled Constance under an awning, remaining in the shadows.

“What's wrong?” she said.

“I just want to make sure that thing isn't following us.”

Constance leaned against the building, her backpack scrunching. “When I went to school today, I thought it was going to be just like any other day.”

“Well, tomorrow you'll get back in the groove.”

“Are you kidding, Owen? How can I go back to school after what we've seen? And Mr. Page said I had to—”

“Listen, you have to pretend none of this happened.”

Constance flushed. “Is that what you're going to do, Owen? Just how are we supposed to do that? We were almost killed by a flying, fire-breathing dragon, and you expect me to pretend it was all a dream?”

“Yes, that's exactly what it was. A fantastic dream.”

“And what about that?” she said, pointing to the burlap sack. “Just a dream too?”

Owen moved to a trash can and dropped it in. “Yes. Now go home.”

“What about Mr. Page? the Slimesees? the tunnels? and that drunk man who survived a knife through his—?”

Owen clamped a hand over her mouth. “Never mention those things again—understand?”

She jerked away. “But there is another kingdom! Mr. Page said so!”

Owen reached for her again.

“Stop!” a voice said from across the street. It was Constance's mother. “You! Owen Reeder! I might have known! You took her? I've got the police looking for her!”

“It was my fault, Mother! He told me not to follow him this morning, but I—”

“Quiet!” the woman shouted. “Get in this house!”

Constance started across the street, then turned. “Please, Owen.”

The woman glared. “The police will hear about this, young man! You'd better not have touched her. Taking a girl and staying away all day. Shame!”

“I told her to get back to school, ma'am. Honest I did. She wouldn't listen. She has a mind of her own.”

“Tell me about it. Just stay away from my daughter. I don't want to ever see you around here again. Understand?”

Though Owen had issues with Constance and her continual speech, and though she reminded him of the horror they had witnessed, he felt sad leaving her in the clutches of this angry, shrewish woman.

“You'll hear from the police, so go home and stay there.” Constance's mother slammed the door.

Owen trudged away, hoping he had convinced Constance that he was no longer interested in the battle. He had been trying only to protect her. If he could make her believe he was disengaging, he could convince anyone.

When he looked back, Constance was watching him from the window. Owen wanted to wave, but he thought better of it. She was already likely getting a tongue-lashing, and he didn't want to make things worse. He certainly didn't want her to think he was changing his mind and would pursue this craziness. He had to keep her from that.

Owen waited until Constance turned from the window; then he retrieved the burlap sack from the trash can and broke into a trot. She was right. He was no longer limping.

The question now was, where was he going? Out in the open the beast could find him. At home his father waited and soon likely the police. School was no refuge. Mrs. Rothem was gone, he had skipped, and Gordan and his friends had probably ratted on him. And who knew where Karl was now?

Owen had never felt like this. For a while he could think of absolutely nowhere safe to go, but he felt a certain confidence, a zest for life he had never known. His had been a languorous lifestyle (like a koala on NyQuil). Now Owen felt more alive than he had in all the rest of his days put together.

He had to return home, if only to pack. But then where would he go? He had no relatives, no best friend who would take him in. All he could think of was finding somewhere to sit and read the book. He had the feeling that no matter how bad things got, the book would help guide him.

He skirted the main streets, keeping to the alleys. He also kept an eye on the sky for any sign of the beast. But where darkness had descended, sunlight now peeked through. The threat that had hung over the land had lifted, as if a new power had reclaimed the heavens and drained the clouds dry.

Owen strangely found himself thinking new thoughts. Such as, if there were no clouds, the sun would not seem as bright on cloudless days. And if there were no pain (such as the pain in his heel all those years), there would be no joy from the freedom of pain. And if no freedom for people to do as they pleased, good or evil, no creativity. No songs. No books. And if there were no books, then no knowledge, and if no knowledge, no love, for love is the blend of knowledge and pain and freedom.

When Owen finally reached the intersection across from the bookstore he found that his anxiety over his father—and Karl—had not grown as it might have had he been late any other day. He wasn't sure how he was going to handle his dad, but he believed he could.