The Scribbler Guardian 1: Arks Of Octava

by Lucian Bane

God, the caring in his strong voice, the warmth, begging her to hide in its realness, get lost in its safety. It nearly unraveled her. “I’m… I’m fine,” she barely whispered. “Thank you for saving me. Then, and today.” She nodded, wiping the falling tears. “It was a dark time, Mr. Poe.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Quarks and hadrons, she was crying. And there was something about the emotion in her voice that stirred him differently than when the mother had cried. And he was angry, no denying it. How dark had this time been? How much pain had the moronic hominid caused her? And how could he cause her that pain unless… “You loved him?”

  “What?” she gasped. “Loved, loved who?”

  “The man from the dark time?”

  “Loved, no! No dear Poe, I was merely a child at the time. A sixteen year old fool. Young and wanting very much to be normal and like the other girls my age.”

  “Sixteen?” Poe did the math in a hurry. “You suffered for seven years before you sought me?”

  He waited in the silence, struggling to understand his own emotions over it. How he wanted to exercise… some kind of violence. The injustice of her pain demanded it. Her pain demanded other things of him too. Touching things. He wanted to touch her. Like he had needed to do with Kane when the boy was afraid. He wanted to protect her, yes. No, more than that. He wanted to erase it. Make her forget. Do things to make her forget. Things he had no business doing it seemed, not with his own Scribbler. Surely.

  But what in the worlds did he know about what he should do with his Scribbler? Everything he was discovering, all he thought he knew about anything, was coming up erroneous.

  “Wow,” she whispered. “Was it seven years?” She sounded amazed to hear it out loud. “One can lose track of time when it’s dark. Lose track of many things.”

  “Tell me,” he said, needing to understand her pain, needing to connect with it.

  “The story is cliché my dear Poe.” Her tone was light but he heard the pain clearly. “Virgin meets handsome man, believes all the nice things he says to her. She gives over her heart, body, and mind, and he uses it once and throws it away.”

  A furious pain hit his guts at those words. “You still suffer.” Despite her nonchalance, he felt it. It wasn’t frivolous, hardly. She had been ensnared by the disease and now bear the scars of it.

  “Nooooo,” she gasped, “not one bit!”

  And she denied it. Why? Poe decided to leave it. For now. “I should like to meet this hominid, I think.”

  She gave a harsh ha. “Oh no you don’t! And won’t. He’s not worth the trouble of a broken nail.”

  “He’d be worth the trouble of all his broken bones.”

  “Poe! I didn’t create you violent!”

  “No, you created me just. And judging by the pain he caused, breaking all his bones would not be enough to justify what he did.”

  “Well…” Poe heard distinct satisfaction in her tone. She wasn’t going to argue the point. “That’s what I get for trying to be normal.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “I hope you have learned your lesson.”

  “I think I have.”

  But there was a sadness now that barely tinged the happy words, like a life longed for and lost. It made Poe wish he were the Scribbler so that he could write another life for her, one with no pain. The next thing he knew, he was imagining the unthinkable. Being in her life during that pain. Not as a muse in a fictional story she didn’t think was real, but as he was now. His muscles ached with the sudden need to reach his hand toward her. Arrest the darkness in her life that still had a hold on her. Crush it.

  Poe let out a growl of disgust and frustration that he couldn’t or shouldn’t. “He was such a fool,” was all he muttered. “If I had been there, I would have stopped this, I assure you.”

  She gave a light laugh, sniffling. “You were there and you did stop it.”

  “It’s hardly the same, Scribbler.” He tried to keep the growl from his voice, but it was very difficult. “I was fictional in your mind.”

  “No, no,” she whispered. “You were very real to me. Very real.”

  He was only a little comforted with her sincerity. He bit back many words he was sure were inappropriate. Especially the not real enough ones. But he was real now, wasn’t he? And that pain was still there, still real. He could still do something. “You will help me then?”

  “Help you?” The hopefulness in her tone said he was right in assuming she needed that. Needed to be a part of something real, outside of her pretend world. Poe decided not to be bothered that he was once part of that pretense. Having her know he was real now was enough. He’d make sure she knew it perfectly so that she could never forget.

  “I need to find seven other beings like myself.”

  “Is that… The Seven you talked about earlier?”

  “Yes. They came here to learn something and we’ve lost contact with them. The one called Minister of Sound, the one that sent me here, said I had to come and find them. I need to locate the Sound Scribbler too.”

  “Sound Scribbler. Who on earth can that be?”

  “He seems to be the only one with the answers and has called me and Kane to come. The Minister that sent me called me the Eighth Ark of Octava.”

  “Ohhhhh, sounds fancy!”

  Poe shook his head and stared blindly above. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I do.” Poe froze when she adjusted the covers on him. He didn’t mind helping her however he could, but he still did not like her touch. Or her too-close presence. Or rather he liked it too much and that was the problem. “I shall see you in the morning.”

  “Goodnight.” He was ready for her to leave now. He needed to use The Eraser. Might need to use it often even, until he had a better handle on his human body’s reactions with her. He was surer than ever his instincts were stronger with her because she was his creator. And as her creation, he needed to guard that sacred line between Designer and the Designed. Protect her from developing the wrong connections with him in his human form. He was not ignorant to the science of the human emotions and his Scribbler was quite prone to every single one, albeit mostly unaware it would seem.

  ****

  Charlotte woke early, hardly able to sleep the entire night. She’d laid awake plotting and planning the possible scenarios for the coming day. She’d even picked out her clothes for crying out loud, in case Jeramiah’s sight came back. She’d want to impress him as his Scribbler. Bad enough she failed the whole knowing about Octava bit and everything pertaining to it.

  Dressing in the sophistication reflecting her Scribbler’s lineage—white pantsuit and matching heels, she made her way downstairs—heels in her hands to be quiet.

  She paused at the living room, peering in to check on the men.

  “You’re up early.”

  Charlotte yelped and jerked around. “Poe!”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”

  She stared up at him, heart hammering at the mere sight. She angled her head. “Can you…”

  “Shadows. I’m grateful for that much.”

  She waved her hand before him and he waved back, making her smile. “Would you like coffee?”

  “I would. Very much.”

  His tone seemed… sober, she noticed. Lacking the warmth and ease of their midnight chat. She put on her heels then. “I’ll lead you.”

  “I can manage,” he said.

  A pain stabbed her and she laughed it off. “Suit yourself then.”

  “Thank you anyway.”

  Despite his need for independence, she went slowly, not wanting to get too far ahead. Once he found his way onto one of the stools at the island, she got the coffee pot. “Did you sleep as little as me?” She glanced at him while loading the grinds.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “How does one sleep with their very own fictional character downstairs on their couch?”

  “Like one sleeps when their Scribbler is above them, I suppose.”

 
She laughed and nodded, excited to learn she affected him as much. “Fair enough,” she said, getting milk for Kane’s chocolate.

  “I had Kane read the… map.”

  “Oh?” She paused, a tad disappointed she’d missed out on that. He didn’t like to unclothe in front of her, she got that. She’d made him proper and chivalrous that way, which often had her smiling and kicking herself simultaneously. “And what did it say?”

  “We think it’s a location on a map.”

  “Ohhhh, maybe I can… check it on my GPS. I’m pretty handy with gadgets.”

  He put his hands together on the bar. “I can see your form. But it’s a dark shadow.”

  She eyed him briefly. “I’m sorry about your sight, I’m sure you’ll see in no time.”

  “I hope so.”

  She suddenly wondered what he wanted to see most. “You must be eager to see this world.”

  “I am. And eager to find the Arks as well as the Sound Scribbler. Learn what the Arks discovered here and return to Octava to address the problem there. Other children are being hurt as we speak.” He went silent and the weight of what he said made her feel stupid. Especially since she’d been holding her breath, hoping to hear her name among the things he most wanted to see. “I also can’t wait to move about freely and assist more. I can cook you know.”

  She smiled and nodded. “So glad I equipped you with self-sufficiency. And I would be happy to let you cook as I am not the least bit good at it.”

  “I’m not picky about food.”

  “You might change your mind when you taste my cooking.” She got biscuits out of the fridge and straightened. At finding his bright gaze fixed on her she froze. Was he seeing her?

  “You’re quite short,” he said.

  She gave a small laugh. “And to think I have heels on.”

  “Heels?”

  “Those are shoes with little… elevations on back to make one taller.”

  “Strange.”

  “Ohhh yes, indeed they are.”

  “Why do you wear them?”

  “I usually don’t.” At his silence, she realized he was waiting for her to explain. “I… figured I should dress the part.”

  “Part?”

  “Of a successful Scribbler, I guess.” She felt suddenly stupid as she put the pan of biscuits in the oven. “I figured we’d be leaving the house today too and… well I need to go into town for a few things.” She pulled dishes out of the cabinet and continued to ramble. “Wasn’t sure if we’d need to leave for other reasons, just thought I’d be ready. In case. I can change. Probably will, I’m not the least at home in fancy clothes.”

  “Of course.”

  Lord, she’d confused him with all her nonsense. Then it occurred to her after she emptied a dozen eggs into a pot. “I suppose you two didn’t have time to pack any clothes?” He gave a light snort as visions of him dressed in jeans and t-shirt danced in her head. “There’s a mall not far from here. We can pick up a few things for the two of you. My treat of course.”

  “I have money,” he said before seeming to remember. “On Octava.”

  “I have more money than you or I know what to do with,” she whisked the eggs with the vigor of an experienced cook, splattering it onto her blouse. “Ah crap,” she muttered dabbing at it before pushing on with the task of pretending she knew what the hell she was doing. “It’ll be nice to actually know what to do with it for a change.”

  “I would appreciate it. And…”

  She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Whatever you need, I can help with. My pleasure.”

  “It’s Kane,” he said quietly. He needs… he’s afraid of water and hasn’t bathed in quite a while.”

  “Oh dear.” She quickly poured the egg batter into the overly heated skillet and set the bowl down to face him. “Maybe I can talk him into a bath?”

  He shook his head. “I should have said he’s petrified of water.”

  She made her way to the island and whispered, “Why?”

  His gaze leveled on her, seeming to see. “I don’t know. I never got around to finding that out, but given where I rescued him from, I hate to think why.”

  “Oh God,” she muttered, nervously tucking hair behind her ear. She had written some pretty horrific things and learning they didn’t really happen on Octava was a relief… except now that might not be the case. To imagine there were real characters enduring the things Horror Writers wrote made her cringe and feel dirty. “I’ll try my best to help. We can… start with a sponge bath possibly.”

  “That was all I had managed before everything went crazy.”

  “Of course.” Her heart stirred at seeing how much he cared for the boy. “You’re a good friend to him.”

  “Or bad company. I think your breakfast…”

  “Shit!” She spun and raced to the eggs. Snatching up the spoon, she stirred the mess and spread the awful aroma far and wide.

  “What smells like burned up chicken feathers?” Kane yawned from the doorway.

  “Good morning!” Charlotte sang, jerking the pan off the stove. “That would be your perfectly ruined breakfast!” She put the pan in the sink and turned on the water, waving off the now wet burned chicken feather stench. “Ugh!” She looked back and found Kane sitting exactly next to Poe who had his arm around the boy. “How about we take a trip into town and pick up breakfast? While we’re at it, we’ll hit that mall, pick up some clothes for the two of you and return to plot our mission. Find the Seven Arks of Octava! Sounds like an adventure story come to life. What do you say to that?”

  Kane nodded with his head on Jeramiah’s arm, smiling. “I’m hungrier than ten dogs in a desert.” He drawled the words with an accent and Charlotte laughed.

  “Well we’d better see to that! I’ll change into something less stuffy too. I practically bathed in the egg batter anyway.” She looked down at the few spots on her suit top. “You two can manage your… bathroom duties I imagine.”

  “I imagine, yes,” Poe said, sounding humored.

  “Alrighty then. I’ll get dressed and we’ll get this show on the road.”

  Could she get any more un-original? Geeze. She was never good at speaking. Writing was another thing. Things flowed for her when her fingers hit the keyboard. But words via tongue? Bumbling idiot.

  Chapter Twelve

  Poe managed to walk to the vehicle on his own. The bright sunlight helped him make out the shadows better. He realized something fascinating in that moment and paused at the vehicle.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Poe turned to the sound of his Scribbler’s voice next to him. “I just realized… my senses seem more amplified.”

  “Oh. Couldn’t you smell or see well on Octava?”

  “Perfectly. I think. I seem to smell more. Feel more. Taste more, hear more.” He looked around and closed his eyes, breathing in. “What is this warmth?”

  A moment of silence preceded his Scribbler’s soft words. “The sun?”

  “The sun,” he repeated. “Of course.”

  “Octava has no sun?”

  “Yes, yes,” Poe said. “I don’t recall being so… aware of its warmth.” He took in a deep sniff. “And I do believe I am smelling it.”

  “The sun?” she asked, sounding entertained.

  “Or perhaps the things the sun is warming.” He regarded her shadow. “I do think it’s hotter here. I don’t know,” he said, frustrated. “I do remember more heat when I’m in story world. Perhaps it depends on that?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, sounding just as curious. “Maybe your senses are only used when needed there. As opposed to here, they’re just… always turned on. We tend to learn, establish, and confirm via the senses here.”

  He thought about that. “And in Octava, we learn what we are told and taught by our Scribblers as well as the realm’s laws. Which… I partly assumed mirrored the realm of the Scribbler’s.”

  “Here, let me help you.”

  His Scribbler’s
hand touched his and brought a cacophony of sensations to his body. Poe hurried to decipher what it was she was helping him with so he could help her finish the molestation upon his touch sensory. But the more he tried to help, the more his hands ran into hers.

  “If you just step back,” she said, laughter in her voice, “I’ll open the door for you.”

  Feeling stupid, he moved aside with both hands in the air. An apology seemed in order but he wasn’t sure why. He’d thought she was helping him with his amplified sensory dilemma which brought on the silly patty-cake.

  Once in the back seat of her vehicle—SUV, as she’d referred to it—Poe felt along the door for the mechanism that would allow him to open the window. Blasted vehicles. Octava had them but he’d never really cared to pay close attention. Learning all things was now at the top of his list. Having knowledge even where he had no interest was especially proving to be required of him lately. But quarks and hadrons, if he didn’t get that window open, he’d suffocate on the smell emitting from his Scribbler. He’d smelled it before she ever came down stairs. It was pleasant from a distance, and nauseating in close confines.

  “You need the window down?” Air suddenly hit his lungs and he sucked in a grateful breath.

  “Thank you,” he gasped.

  “Is it my perfume?” she sounded upset. “Dang it, I knew I put on too much. I usually don’t wear it, I was again just trying to be professional.”

  Professionals did that? Divinities, the torture. She seemed to be applying a lot of effort into everything she did around him. Them. It made him uncomfortable for some reason. He didn’t like her thinking she needed to.

  A soft chirping sounded, followed by, “Tommy? Hey, I was just thinking of calling.” She laughed and followed with a strained noise, making Poe puzzle over its meaning. The laugh was different than before, when she’d done it with him. “I wanted you to call my agent and cancel the month’s plans. Yes, I want a vacation. No, I’m not sick!” The vehicle moved along and Poe looked in Kane’s direction, wishing he could see the boy’s expression. “I’m taking the advice of all my friends, that’s what. A decade, it has not been a decade and better late than never, I say.” More laughter, this time less forced. “You of all people should know the answer to that.” Poe puzzled over what this person should know the answer to. “Just do it? Please? For me?” The softening of her voice with more laughter had a strange effect on Poe, one he didn’t care for.