by Lucian Bane
The Scribbler Guardian
Arks Of Octava
By Lucian Bane
© 2015 by Lucian Bane
All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Lucian Bane or his legal representative.
To all the readers, fans, and or reader’s clubs. Thank you for supporting my work. I’d also like to ask nicely that you please not Pirate my work. That basically means don’t give it away just because you bought it. If you know of anybody that can’t afford a copy, just let me know. I’m a nice guy.
Also, if you need a different format, please contact me, the author.
Dedication
To My Wife. With All My Love.
Special Mention Goes To The Following Ladies Who Participated In The Scribbler Guardian Read Along:
Alicia Reitz Huckleby
Angela Hester
Bridget McEvoy
Carol Hall
Catherine Byrley Coffman
Cathy Schisel Knuth
Dorisa Lynne Holmes Curry
Edith Dubielak
Ellie Masters
Hilary Suppes
Hope Elser
Jan Kinder
Jan Wade
Jenny Mckinney Shepherd
Jessie Mora Llewellyn
Katherine DiLauro
Kim Poe
Kirha Rodriguez-formerly McMullen
Laurie Johnson
Linda Kidwell
Louisa Gray
Mary Forster
Mary Lena Marzullo Straface
Mishelle Evans
Nan Lindsey
Nichole Watson
Tammy Singleton Burch
Yvette Grimes
THANK YOU LADIES, WE HAD A BLAST!!!
AND NOW…. THE SCRIBBLER GUARDIAN….
Chapter One
“MR. POE!”
Jeramiah Poe bolted up at the blast of his name and boom boom boom ricocheting in his head. He thrashed his legs until the covers released him and then sat for a brief second, listening.
Urgent banging erupted again and shot Poe out of bed. Heart clubbing his chest, he raced through the inky darkness of his home where his clever tree furniture came to life and clawed at his robe or rammed his shins.
“MR. POE! We need you!”
It was a man. Desperate. “I’m coming!” Poe made it to the door and yanked it open to a stranger who barged in with a woman on his heels.
“We’re sorry to come at this hour!” he gasped.
Poe’s muscles remained locked with self-preservation as he quickly fought with the oil lantern on the wall. Once lit, he spun to the pair, and their darting, dreadful eyes sent Poe flying to the door. He slid the bolt home with a clank and peeked out the quark shaped window for what may be chasing them. The realm was not safe anymore. Not since Earth’s Independent Scribblers gained sovereignty. They filled the realm of Octava with vile fictional-malformations and genre-crossings. Not to mention, Poe lived next to the Forest Province and was under contract with its governors—the Vampires. He was permitted to reside beneath the hill just before the were-creature domain in exchange for guarding its secret entrance, but no fictional person had ever ventured this close to Poe’s post. He couldn’t guarantee their safety. And he couldn’t think of any one thing on Octava worth having to barter with the ever-moody Count Dracula.
The man stepped forward to spill his dire business all in one breath. “Our Scribbler is going to kill our daughter. She’s only five, she’s just started school, she’s beautiful, and… we need your help!”
Two seconds and the man’s words registered with a small wave of relief. “Dear Divinities,” Poe muttered, letting his head drop briefly. “I thought the realm had finally erupted into civil war and you were running from one of the mishaps in the Paranormal Province.” Or worse, the Dark-Urban-Gothic-Fantasy-Erotic-Romance Province. It was so wretched there, the Traditional Rulers of Octava had to quarantine them.
“I would wish that were it.” The man’s deep voice broke with the worry of a father.
Poe felt another threat slowly dawning until his limbs were back to locked and loaded. Darting a suspicious finger between them, he asked, “What…province are you from?”
“Traditional Romance Province.”
Imminent danger returned and formed a shell of invisible energy around Poe to protect him from contagions. He would rather fight a revolting region of claws and teeth than contract the sickness he’d seen in those provinces, both the Traditional and the Independence alike.
“Romance…” Poe dragged the word, needing the specificity of their type. The number of sub-genres beneath the Romance umbrella was fast becoming astronomical.
They exchanged glances before the man said, “Just Contemporary.”
Poe nodded. Just contemporary romance. All of the genres there were sanctified insanity. “My lovely word.” Poe carefully doubled his shields. “Nearly puritans, I see.”
They both nodded rapidly, then waited with wide eyes for some kind of verdict. Their striking appearance registered finally, a common characteristic of the beings created there. Perfection. Facial features, body builds to match. Poe realized the couple inspected him as well and judging by their rapt perusal, they’d not seen many a man with a nine o’clock shadow over a scarred face, ebony disarranged hair and a body built for fierce battles he’d one day fight when his own Scribbler got around to scribbling it. He was a lunar beast with bright silver eyes that shone in the dark, rumor had it. You never heard a word about his intellect, his aptitude or sagacity—his hallowed traits.
“Forgive my appearance,” Poe said. “I was not prepared for company in the AM.”
They seemed to catch their bad manners with a, “No need to apologize at all,” before giving their attention to the unusual décor in his living room. Meanwhile, horrifying visions of Dylan Lanceford’s possession suddenly entered Poe’s mind. A perfectly strong and sensible man, also from the Traditional Romance Province, reduced to weeping and begging—even gnawing his teeth. They’d called the seizure love. More like a strain of necromancy, a conjuring of lunacy within the minds of its victims under the guise of love. And with powers running rampant in the Independent Provinces, one did well to steer clear of the Romance Genre and all its sub-species until Poe got to what or who was behind it.
And lo, with all his steering, what stood in the midst of his home but a couple radiating with the disease, a hair trigger from an episode of sorts. Being they were Traditional couldn’t guarantee his safety since he himself was a first class Miskriat, a being written by his Scribbler and not published into the approved Traditional or Independent systems of Octava. He was a drifter, a loner, and a mere rumor to most. But his freedom came with risks, as did the power his Scribbler created him with. Mastering all variations of energy in the realm made him susceptible to their influences. And though he was known as The Great Muse Rider, Changer of Lives and Definer of Destinies, he was only six years old. Just enough wisdom to know he was far from wise.
Giving his shields a careful once over, he waved them to follow him to the kitchen as he formulated a plan to get rid of them as quickly as possible. He would have to influence the mind of their Scribbler hadrons of miles away. Not only was it universally and politically unlawful, it was dangerous. Projecting power into the Forbidden Embolus from the fictional side produced painful arcs that temporarily blinded Poe, sometimes for several minutes, worst case several hours. He called it Reversing the Eight-Fold Way and as far as he knew, he was the only one who could do it. But somehow
his secret gift was discovered and required him to go into hiding, which clearly, he was no good at.
“We would not have come if it weren’t life and death.”
“Never,” the woman added. “We’ve heard good things about you too.”
Life and death, yes. Everything was such with these.
Entering the small space, Poe gestured they sit at the spool table with the matching chairs while he busied himself with tea preparations. Again he found them looking all about. The kitchen was far from customary, his spring-green mossy walls flowed upward like an hour-glass with a quark shaped window plugging the narrowed peak. How did they even find him was the question. “Might I ask how you learned my location?”
A span of silence prompted Poe to turn, and immediately he regretted the question at the sight of wringing hands and emotional unpleasantries twisting their faces. Quarks and hadrons, please don’t have a seizure at such close proximity.
“We were sworn to secrecy.”
The man’s strangled confession added a shot of anger to the brew of angst in Poe. “Were you?” He turned back to the task of tea preparations, pumping the arm on the mini-hand well. “Then I should suggest you go to that blather mouth for whatever it is you want from me!”
“Please,” the woman gasped. “We gave our word and—”
“It was Kane?” Poe mumbled, “I’d bet my Scribbler’s lineage on it.” He plonked the copper kettle onto the stove, wishing it were the little runt’s bottom. “Patron of the pulmonary carrying-on’s, that one.” Poe added a few cedar logs to the belly of his black iron stove. He’d deal with him at first light. Poe faced the couple who seemed taken with curiosity at his outdated kitchen appliances. “Not everybody wants to indulge in the new gadgets of their Scribblers realm. My own Scribbler created me to love antiquation, simplicity, classicality. I happen to find more value in these things.”
“It’s a lovely home,” the woman hurried. “Very…”
“Simple,” the man helped when she fretted for an agreeable term.
“Fantastical, even,” she dared in a singsong voice. “Like a cute hobbit home.”
Poe turned and rolled his eyes, fetching cups from his simple cupboard as the two filled his kitchen with an odd cackling laugh. “I suppose since you know where I live, then you also know everything else you shouldn’t about me.”
“We were told you could help,” the man said.
"And that you were good," the woman reminded. “That’s all, I give you my word on that.”
“Your word.” Poe set three tin cups on the counter, irked with her sorcery. Giving a compliment strictly to secure his submission to this ‘goodness’ didn’t help them one bit. “Do you have any idea at all about words? The power behind them?”
“Words?” she echoed, appearing worried. “I… know the power of the Scribbler’s words, yes.”
“So what value do your words have, madam, a mere creation that you are? Why should I feel remotely impressed with your word?”
She lowered her head like he’d taken a hammer to her self-esteem, filling Poe with a mix of odd frustration. “Your words have as much value as your Scribbler, woman.” Despite his efforts to calm down, Poe took the lower road for a change. “Why is it so difficult for Creations to understand that they are not mere Characters in a story, but replicas of their Creators—not only in image, but far beyond? Life and death succumb to the Scribbler’s will and that power indwells the creation if you but believe it.” Poe looked between the intent faces before him, both straining to compute—not to understand mind you, but to placate the terrible master from whom they sought favor, whom they had need.
Disgusted, Poe was ready to be rid of the pair, and the fear and drama that indwelled them. “I will help you.”
A moment of shock preceded the pair shooting up from their seats for a bouncing, dancing embrace. Poe couldn’t help but gawk at the touching fetish. Like the eyes and ears lacked ample function thereby requiring the third sense for comprehensive communication. “But there is a price,” Poe added, desperate to put an end to the strange energy molesting his aura.
“We have money,” the man gasped. “Tell us what it costs.”
Poe regarded him sharply. “Money is fools fodder. I don’t mean that sort of cost. The sum, the product, the quotient, the difference. One doesn’t exercise the laws without reaping their consequence, be they beneficial or detrimental.”
They froze and the man regarded him with open worry. “Detrimental?”
“Depending on which side of the equation you’re on, yes.”
The man untangled himself from the woman and faced Poe. “What side are we on?”
“Not we. You.” Poe spun to the sound of the kettle, the gray lapels of his night robe flying. “This will require power. Energy, to ensure its success. You do want to ensure its success?” Poe returned with their cups and they took them, nodding in unison.
“Where do we get this energy?” the man asked.
Poe retreated safely to the far side of the square near the stove, regarding the man then her, wondering now if she should be involved.
“Tell us!” she begged.
Something banged against Poe’s shield and he eyed her with sudden caution before turning to the earnest green gaze of the man. “The Bog.”
Immediate concern marred his brow. “Our Bog?”
“Yes, your Bog. Unless you prefer I use energy from the Horror Bog to inspire a Romance Scribbler.”
The fellow hurried forward, gripping Poe’s arm. “Do you even know who is on duty there?”
“I do.”
The man shook his head. “Then you know it’s not safe.”
“Of course it is.”
“With all due respect,” the man said quietly, “Dr. Science and Hop-A-Long Cassidy are both cruel beings, they—”
“What nerve,” Poe said. “The good Doctor and Hoppy happen to be my friends.”
The fellow stepped back as though treading carefully, staring intently at Poe. “But… I’ve heard bad things about any who attempt to obtain energy from The Bog with those two. Rumor has it they’re not too happy with the job.”
“And I don’t blame them!” Poe downed his tea in one shot and tossed his cup into the copper sink with a clank. ”Imagine living lives of fictional adventure for centuries and then being stuck on Bog duty in the Romance Province.” Poe didn’t hold back his growl of disgust. “They must be bored out of their minds.”
The man glanced at his wife and back at Poe, confused. “I… heard they sucked a man’s energy until he disappeared.”
“An exaggerated story. The man broke clear Bog protocol.”
“By not dancing fast enough?”
Poe shrugged with wide eyes. “Rules are made for a reason. And I know the Doc and Hoppy, they had good reason. Plus the man was a second class Miskriat.”
The man drew his head back. “Miskriats are people too.”
Anger flashed through Poe. “I never said they were not. But for logic’s sake and my patience, both of which you have bankrupt, you, lover boy, are a registered inhabitant of Octava, therefore under the protection of the realm’s laws. The Bog’s Guardians are not capable of harming you. Since second class Miskriats exist only in the minds of their Scribblers,” Poe reminded, fluttering his fingers at his temple, “they are not warranted by Octava’s laws.”
The gent spun and put his back to Poe as heated whispers erupted between the two. He finally faced him again. “Are you not Miskriat as well?”
Poe stiffened at the scent of trickery. “What does that matter to you?”
The woman answered this time. “We… wouldn’t want to put your life in danger.”
The lie sparked against his shields, angering him greatly. “I am Jeramiah Poe, madam. The Muse Rider. Use sorcery once more with me and I just may re-write your destiny to something more fitting.” A love bird or perhaps a lovely toad, maybe.
“I’ll go,” the man hurried. “She stays.”
Ah, the hero strain. The woman stepped forward then, countenance adamant. “I’m going,” she said.
Another wave of energy pounced Poe’s and he stared at her, astonished. “How are you doing that?”
“Doing what?” she snapped.
Poe realized he didn’t know what she was actually doing. “You have power.”
“I do?”
“She does?” the man sounded surprised. “What-what kind and what does that mean? To us, for us?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, and I don’t know.” Poe didn’t hide his fascination and need to study it immediately. Was it the close proximity that allowed him to feel it? Was it something new to Octava?
“This is my baby,” she whispered. Poe watched in further astonishment as fluids leaked profusely down her face. The crying phenomenon. Her mouth hardened suddenly with jutting chin. “And I will do whatever it takes.”
More energy hammered his shield and Poe leaned away instinctively before leveling a hard look at the man. “I may not need The Bog.” He regarded her a moment, thinking. “I may be able to drive her power, steer it.”
The couple regarded each other for several moments before coming together in more limb locking and much gasping. Poe choked back disgust when their mouths met in that vulgar antic called kissing, followed by another blast of energy that nearly knocked Poe on his rear. He’d never witnessed power quite like it. Not the same as his own but powerful nonetheless. All the more reason for Poe to stay far, far, away from their Province. Imagine if that energy somehow seeped into his own and inadvertently influenced his Scribbler to pen him into that sort of hell.
Chapter Two
There was no sleeping for Poe after sending the couple home. It was like the universe had grown jaws and held him in a viscous grip. What was he thinking to steer her power? One didn’t steer power without having to open their own and mesh with theirs.
The notion filled him with the need to escape his own skin and he thrashed his legs, kicking the bed covers off again. Sleep was officially a useless concept now. Poe leapt out of bed and dressed for the day only to remember where he was going. He redressed in his customary head-to-toe, black, Bog attire. A silent, blending shadow was his preferred passage within the dense woods of the realm’s recyclable.
