The Scribbler Guardian 1: Arks Of Octava

by Lucian Bane

  What was she worried about, she’d not made him a romance character. No, in fact, she’d specifically created him without that contamination, without that ridiculous complication.

  She gave a final huff, feeling better. He was merely acting out his inquisitive nature when he explored her. He wasn’t fascinated with her, captivated with her, enthralled with her—as she was with him. And she was not upset over that, she was not a twelve year old. But she did need to be careful, she didn’t want to scare him away. Or confuse him. Especially not scare him away, definitely not.

  After making her way downstairs, she got the little master settled near the fire and tucked in. She even gave him one of her childhood stuffed animals she kept there. “This here is Kerchok,” she whispered, kneeling next to the boy tucked neatly in the navy blue sleeping bag. She nestled the ratty brown teddy bear under his arm. “He may look like an ordinary bear but in the realm of dreams and sleep,” her eyes widened, “he’s a mighty fierce warrior,” she said in her strong voice.

  Kane held the bear before his face then hugged him close with a huge smile. “I’m not so good at sleeping,” he whispered, lifting his head to eye Mr. Poe briefly. “He was gonna teach me a trick about how to be good at it.”

  “Not good at sleeping?” she gasped with dramatic incredulity. “Well, I happen to know a few tricks myself for bringing the sand man.”

  “Who is the sand man?” His little brows furrowed with curiosity.

  Charlotte propped her hands on her hips. “Why, he’s the man with the sand of course. He pours sand in your eyes and makes your eyelids sooooo heavy that you can’t open them.” She demonstrated the effect, eyelids nearly shutting with the impossible weight of buckets and buckets of sleep-sand.

  “My eyes know how to sleep,” he whispered. “My brain don’t.”

  She smiled, her heart warming. “What if I tried to sing to you? Maybe that might help?” She eyed Mr. Poe. “I’ll have to do it quietly though,” she whispered, before mouthing, “I can’t really sing that well.”

  He smiled and nodded eagerly. “I never tried that trick. I think it would be hard to sleep while I sing.”

  She giggled and touched his nose. “You’re not the one who is supposed to sing, silly. Another must sing while you sleep.”

  “Ohhhh, I get it. What do I do?”

  “Just close your eyes.” He did so and Charlotte laid next to the boy and began to sing one of her childhood favorites about Go Tell Aunt Rosie.

  Kane’s eyes suddenly opened and tears glistened. “What’s wrong,” she gasped, getting up on an elbow.

  His bottom lip poked out as he fought the tears and whispered, “I just feel sad for the old great goose being dead. I don’t want it to be dead or be used in a feather bed.”

  Dear Lord! “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” She stroked his forehead. “Silly me, of course you don’t. Let me fix that.” She re-sang the song and made up a new end about the goose standing on his head on a red feather bed. It was the wrong pace and flow but the giggles it produced said she’d hit a winner.

  “Sing one more,” he whispered around a yawn.

  Charlotte smiled. “One more.” She thought of one that was happier and a bit longer and sang it. She noticed before she got to the last verse, his lips had parted and his chest rose and fell with the deep breaths of sleep.

  She crept her way up off the floor and found Mr. Poe lying on the couch, an arm over his forehead, eyes closed. She went over and carefully laid an extra blanket on him, her eyes catching on the perfect mouth. Her heart raced at the notion that she’d created such perfection. Her fascination only fueled, her gaze went up and she jumped at finding the bright shine of his eyes, fixed on her.

  She straightened immediately and whispered, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Lord, could he see now? He stared right at her.

  “I wasn’t sleeping.”

  The softness in his lowered voice called to her being, like a fly to a glittering web. She wanted to get caught up in it, wiggle around in its intriguing grasp. “Do you need anything before I retire? A drink? Anything?”

  “I’m quite satisfied, thank you.”

  The sincerity in his tone relaxed her. “Okay then.” She hesitated briefly, her mind saying it was an appropriate time to leave while her body searched for a reason to stay. “I’ll see you bright and early then. Unless you prefer to sleep in.”

  “Ah. I don’t know what this human body prefers, honestly.”

  “Right!” She nodded and smoothed her nervous hands over her pajamas. “Well, I’ll be banging around in the kitchen about six-ish. Breakfast is on me.”

  “I would insist on cooking if I could see.”

  She had to smile at that. “I don’t remember you knowing how to cook.”

  His eyes flitted over her body, making her blush and again she wondered if he was seeing. “Well, you gave me a brain, remember? While not working in your story, I used it.”

  “Working in my story?” she said.

  “Yes, when you scribble, I’m required to live that out. It’s acting of course.”

  “Wow. Like at Hollywood, just a job?”

  “Hollywood,” he repeated.

  “That’s a place here where a lot of movie acting happens. The place where we make books come to life with real people.”

  He turned a curious brow to her. “How do they accomplish this?”

  “Well, it’s… not real. They’re just pretending.”

  “Like we do on Octava,” he said, astonished.

  “I… suppose. It sounds like it.”

  He angled his head, staring in the air before him. “I still cannot believe you didn’t know about Octava.”

  Despite the fact it wasn’t her fault she felt the need to apologize. “I’m truly sorry about that too.”

  He looked toward her. “Why should you be, it’s not your fault.”

  “Maybe.” At his silence, she went on, taking a seat on the coffee table next to him. “Who knows, we don’t really know why we don’t know.”

  “Or that you should,” Poe said, demonstrating how much thought he’d been giving it.

  She put her hands on her knees then, bracing against the storm of questions begging for answers. “How do you know when I’m writing?”

  He stared right at her again as though he could see, making her heart race. “There is a place in my stomach that tells me,” he said, his tone soft, like the topic might be personal. Intimate even.

  “Reeeeally!” She smiled in fascination as her body continued to respond to the close proximity of her… fictional creation so very real and huge on the couch before her. “Like how?”

  “Just this feeling. A tickling… tugging sensation.”

  “Wow. Like a gut instinct?”

  “I’m not sure what that feels like,” Poe said. A few seconds of awkward silence happened before he asked, “Why did you quit writing? My story, I mean.”

  Ugh shit. Not that question. She suddenly wasn’t sure how to answer that and went around five blocks of nonsense before arriving at a reason she’d thought had been well buried. And yet there she went, rehashing her foolish experience with a man, over a decade before. “He was an ass and I thought he was Mr. Romeo. And no, I am not into romance,” she assured at seeing his alarm no doubt at the mention of miss no romance having any such experience. “It was stupid. I was young, this was before I knew better, knew the dangers. And he was such a player that one,” she wagged her finger at Poe, fighting to keep it light. “Tricking me into thinking he felt something he didn’t. Well, I ended that in a hurry.”

  “Very good,” he said, sounding relieved.

  “Yes, very. And I never turned back since, nor have I been foolish to ever let a man trifle with me.”

  “Wonderful,” he said. “Love is a preposterous notion to begin with. The romantic version that is,” he corrected.

  “Right!” she agreed. “Stupid. I mean did you ever watch people in love? Oh my God, it’s disgusting the
way they behave.”

  “I have just enough experience with it to know you are correct.”

  “Do you!?”

  He nodded, bringing both arms above his head in a most inviting way. “I saw a man once in the Romance Province, in love they called it. He behaved like a three year old child who’d lost his tricycle. The theatrical crying was one for The Bogs.”

  Charlotte laughed quietly and whispered, “What else?”

  “I helped a couple once and got to witness that despicable kissing debacle. Not the same as what I did, mind you, but… much more… I don’t know the proper words. I only know I wanted to reverse the Eight-Fold way and have their Scribblers turn them into mushrooms.”

  Charlotte covered her squeals, loving the sound of his deep chuckle. Dear God she was doing it again. Sitting there, ready to stay up all night and talk to him just to be near him. Juvenile! But he was fascinating and he was her very own fictional character. So she should want to do that very thing, what normal person wouldn’t? Exactly!

  “So after this moronic hominid hurt you, you have not sought to endanger your life in this manner again?”

  “Never! I mean there have been plenty of moronic hominids that have wanted to, but I know how to keep them at bay.”

  “Do tell. I should like to learn this defense.”

  “Why? Do you have women on Octava that give you problems?” A sharp pang of jealousy hit her at the idea.

  “Not at all, but one can never be too cautious. And preparation is the first line of defense when it comes to protecting from contagions.”

  Charlotte simply adored every aspect of the way he communicated. From the words he used to the way he laid them in a sentence. It was like poetry. “Well, my short hair is one thing that helps.”

  “How so? And here I am with hair past my shoulders.”

  She giggled. “I don’t think the length of your hair matters one bit.”

  “Why not? And yours does?”

  “It’s different with women. Their hair is considered some kind of ridiculous glorified mane.”

  “Is it,” Jeramiah sounded astonished at this odd news.

  “Not really, no. It’s all part of the romance sickness if you ask me. I mean sure, some men like short hair but for the most part, long is the preferred with beauty.”

  “And beauty, this is something required with romance?”

  “No, not at all. The disease doesn’t need beauty to thrive but it seems to prefer it.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding troubled. “So why should your short hair matter?”

  “It’s not just my short hair. That’s part of my defense, I have a whole line.”

  “Do you?” he sounded impressed.

  “Yes. One, I am careful not to go into public places where a possible connection could form.”

  “However do you manage that?”

  “Oh, it’s easy. I do most of my shopping online and have it delivered straight to me. The only real reason I like going out is for research.”

  Jeramiah was up on his elbow now, staring in her direction, clearly loving that topic. “What sort of research?”

  She stared at his mouth and her mind brought those firm lips against hers, pressing. Warm. Begging. “People research,” she said, nearly breathless.

  “People? What are you studying?”

  “Humanity in the raw.” She looked down at her hands now, needing a break. “I have to in my profession. How can I rightly scribble what I don’t truly know?”

  “Right,” he said, fascinated. “And how do you perform this research safely?”

  She grinned, biting her lower lip before devouring up every part of his insanely handsome face again. “I go in disguise.”

  “Disguise. What sort?”

  “Whatever I want. I like especially to dress like a man. It’s quite helpful when I need accurate data from a man’s perspective. Not to mention, entertaining. But it’s risky.”

  “How so?”

  “Oh you always get some asshole wanting to talk. I try to keep my locations to restaurants or places that don’t really facilitate that type of socializing.

  “Brilliant,” he said. “I should like to do this with you.”

  She gasped at the idea. “Would you! Oh what fun it would be to have a partner in crime!”

  “A blind partner at that.”

  “Oh,” she pffed. “You’ll see soon enough. And whatever you don’t see, I’ll keep you properly informed.”

  “Would you?” he said, smiling again.

  “Mr. Poe!” she cried, near laughing. “I’m a Scribbler! One of the finest in the world, too.”

  “Are you,” he mused, smiling full out.

  “I most certainly am,” she said, captivated with his teeth. She never liked denture-straight or Hollywood white, and was thrilled to see the perfect imperfection. It added to his rugged appearance in the most ridiculous, delicious way. “My family is in the lineage of the world’s top Scribblers, my dear Poe.”

  “And yet, you have not published me.”

  Shame hit her. Yeah. That.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he said.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s that my family wants me to write in only the horror genre.”

  “I officially loathe the genre.”

  “Because of Kane?” she asked.

  “Yes. Why do people want to read about bad things?”

  She shrugged. “I guess to maybe learn about it, understand it?” She hated to be the one to tell him that some people got off to it. Maybe later.

  “If that was all, it would seem fine.” He laid back down, clasping those large, bronze hands at his midsection. “And so your family wants you to write only this?”

  “They do. And I obey them. That they’re aware of.”

  He regarded her sharply. “You… hide this from them?”

  “J. P. Howe, at your service. I’m not actually a man.”

  He gave a chuckle. “So I’ve discovered. And you hide this, why?”

  She let out a huge sigh. Why, indeed. “You know... I used to have a ready, justified answer for that question. And now… now they all seem so silly. Why should I let others define my passions?”

  “You shouldn’t,” he said.

  She smiled at him, straightening her spine. “Okay then.”

  “For somebody who hardly smiles, you’ve been doing it a lot.”

  Her stomach tickled at the joy in his tone about that. “How do you know?”

  “I can hear it. You’re doing it now.”

  She burst out in silent laughter, glancing over her shoulder at Kane. “I can’t help it if you’re the most fun I’ve had in years.”

  “Quarks and hadrons, you suffer from long term isolation.”

  “Indeed I do, but you are a fantastic person and very much fun to be around and talk to.”

  “A person,” he repeated.

  She suddenly worried she’d offended him. “Well… I mean to me you’ve always been real.”

  He angled his head, brows furrowed. “Have I?”

  “Oh, God, yes! I may not know about Octava, but you, my dear Poe, I know. I created you when…” She paused, realizing she’d reached a spot in her past she’d buried very deep and with good reason.

  “When what?”

  “Well,” she waved her hand dismissively, feeling safe enough. She’d just do a gist. “I was about to tell you this earlier. You came to me at a very difficult time in my life. A time when I needed a hero that was everything I wanted in a man but without the romance, and danger, and realism.”

  “You mean… I came when you created me.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “I still disagree with that. I’m sorry, when we met, you were fully formed and sharing amazing secrets that I didn’t even know.”

  “Interesting,” he mused.

  “You say that like I’m touched in the head.”

  “Not at all. I say it like I mean it. I find it very interesting.”


  “Yes. Sincere. Honest. The WYSIWYG hero.”

  “The what?”

  “What you see is what you get hero. That’s what you were to me. You saved me from a very dark time.” The pain of that past pushed in at the edges and she shoved it back out.

  “I didn’t realize,” he said, sounding disappointed. “And I thought you were a man all this time.”

  “As it should be,” she said, resolutely.

  “Yes. I don’t know how well I would have done had you been a woman. I suppose I would not have known there was a difference.”

  “I would suppose not.” But that wasn’t true, she realized. She’d somehow thought her characters knew the truth about her. All of her. And they accepted that. Realizing now that it wasn’t the case… she wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or disappointed. She’d go with relieved. She wasn’t ready for her noble Mr. Poe to know the good, the bad, and the ugly about her.

  “I should thank you for not writing me into a Romance.”

  The usual jubilance she got with that fact was suddenly shadowed by the past. “You’re most welcome, my dear Poe.”

  “You’re smiling again.”

  “Yes I am. You seem to carry a happiness contagion.”

  He stared before him with a slight smile of his own before darting his bright gaze toward her. “That’s not a bad thing.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Poe,” she said. “Not one bit bad.” The truth was, she was so very happy to be sitting there, so very thrilled to be talking to the infamous, Jeramiah Poe. Her muse. Her savior. “And I should thank you.”

  “For?” he asked, hopeful.

  “Well, for…” Emotion suddenly rushed into her throat and she covered her mouth to stifle the surprising onslaught.

  He bolted up on his elbows. “Are you okay?”