Eyes of the Forest

by April Henry

  “Oh, hell no,” Bob said.

  BRIDGET

  Never Take Anything for Granted

  Ajay followed Bridget down the hall to the cafeteria. “So why were you listening to that book in class?” With each step, the smell of old grease intensified.

  “Because I love it.” She grabbed a black plastic tray, then held up two fingers for the cafeteria lady. “Two tacos, please. With cheese.” She turned back to Ajay. “Aren’t you getting anything?”

  “I bring my own lunch.”

  “Oh.” In high school, that was true of hardly anyone. She associated bringing your lunch with people whose parents were too proud to take free lunch. Or people who were allergic to gluten or dairy or peanut butter. Or whose moms drew hearts on the outside of the paper bag and slipped a Post-it inside that said Have a great day.

  The way her own mom used to.

  “I’ve seen you listening to your phone in other classes.” Ajay followed her to the big metal bowl of fruit. “I always thought it was music, but now I’m guessing it must have been a book. So what makes it worth getting your phone taken away?”

  Inspecting an apple, Bridget tried to articulate her feelings. “All the books in the Swords and Shadows series are amazing. They’re filled with bravery, treachery, and sacrifice.” She gestured at the fluorescent lights, the chipped linoleum floor, the hordes of students. “This is the boring real world, where Portland, Oregon, and Portland, Maine, are pretty much interchangeable. But in those books, there aren’t any high schools or Walmarts or Taco Tuesdays.”

  “Hey, a lot of people like Taco Tuesdays,” Ajay objected, following Bridget to the cashier.

  “And in those books, you can never take anything for granted.” She handed the cashier her cafeteria card. “You know how if you watch a movie, there’s always certain characters you don’t really have to worry about?”

  “Like the cute five-year-old who keeps saying surprisingly wise things?” Ajay offered. “But no matter how bad things get, that kid always survives the vampires or the earthquake or the serial killer or whatever.”

  “Exactly.” Bridget picked up her tray. “In the Swords and Shadows series, a five-year-old could and maybe would die. And the reader might even have to watch.” She hesitated. Normally she sat on the edge of the cafeteria with a book and Ajay sat in the middle with friends.

  “Want to eat outside?” he said. Now that the temperature was dropping, only a few people were sitting at the concrete benches and tables.

  “Um, sure.”

  As they walked past his regular table, a couple of his friends nudged each other. He didn’t seem to notice. In the far corner, Derrick was peering intently at his phone.

  Outside, they found an empty table. Next to them, a couple was enthusiastically kissing. On the other side, a boy exhaled his vape smoke into his hoodie.

  Ajay unzipped his backpack. “Okay, give me the basic rundown of the plot.”

  “For the whole series? That’s like explaining how the entire world works to an alien who just landed here.” But if anyone was up to the task, Bridget figured she was.

  “Do the best you can.”

  AJAY

  Struck a Nerve

  Ajay still couldn’t believe he was doing this. Asking a girl to have lunch with him. And judging from the expressions of his friends staring at him through the cafeteria window, they couldn’t believe it either. Feeling self-conscious, he looked down as he pulled a large, shiny cloth bag from his backpack.

  “Wait, what’s that made out of?” Reaching out, Bridget grazed the stiff cloth with her fingers.

  “Waxed cotton. Like, literally beeswax. To fold it, you warm it up with your hands.” Her expression seemed oddly unhappy. “What’s the matter? Usually people think it’s cool. This new company in Beaverton is making them.”

  Two spots of color appeared in her cheeks. “Don’t hate me, but my dad sells food-grade plastic for this company called Triple P. Mostly plastic wrap.”

  Plastic? That went against everything Ajay stood for. But then again, it was Bridget’s dad. Not Bridget.

  “No offense, but I just don’t like things that are going to live on for centuries after I use them once.” From the bag, Ajay took out metal utensils, a cloth napkin, and a tiffin.

  Bridget looked intrigued by the series of interlocking stainless steel containers. “What’s that?”

  “A tiffin box. It’s like the Indian equivalent of a lunch box.” Ajay began unsnapping the clasps that held the flat round containers together.

  “It’s clever. All those separate layers. What’s in each of them?”

  Ajay pointed at the bottom one. “Rice.” His finger moved to the middle. “That’s kachumber salad—diced cucumber, tomato, and red onion, with cilantro and lemon-cumin dressing.”

  “Yum.” She peered closer.

  “And the top one is called moong dal. It’s made with mung beans and garlic cooked in butter and spices.” As he spoke, he spooned it over the rice.

  Bridget inhaled appreciatively. “It smells wonderful. Your mom must be a great cook.”

  “My mom?” Ajay chuckled. “Sexist much?” Sure, in his grandparents’ generation, the women did all the cooking, even down to reheating foods in the microwave, but times had changed.

  “Oh, sorry.” Her face reddened again. “Your dad.”

  Ajay was enjoying himself. “Excuse me, but I am the one who made everything.”

  “Wait—what?”

  “I’ve been the main cook at my house since seventh grade.” His mom was a pediatrician with a busy practice, and, frankly, not much of a cook. He’d learned to cook in self-defense. He filled the spoon with rice and beans. “Want a bite?”

  “Um, sure.” At first she chewed quickly, as if she wanted to get it over with. Then she slowed down.

  “That’s more than just cooking,” she said. “That’s like magic. At our house, we mostly heat up food from Trader Joe’s. Sometimes if I’m feeling adventurous, I’ll combine bags of various frozen things.”

  Ajay kept his face neutral, although inwardly he flinched. Before he took over the cooking duties, his mom’s approach to making roti had been to buy it at Trader Joe’s and nuke it in the microwave. Trader Joe’s food wasn’t bad, but it certainly wasn’t home-cooked.

  Ajay reminded himself that he hadn’t come out here to talk about himself, but to listen to Bridget. “You still need to explain those books to me.”

  “Okay, in the first book, King of Swords, there’s this baby, Jancy. She’s the illegitimate daughter of the king and a serving wench. But after a seer prophesied that one of the king’s children would grow up to overthrow him, the queen ordered all his illegitimate children killed.” Bridget took a bite of her taco.

  “Harsh,” Ajay mumbled as he chewed. “Are there a lot of kids?”

  “At least a dozen, and he keeps making more. When you’re a king, you can get away with a lot of bad behavior.” Bridget shrugged. “But Jancy’s mother managed to save her from the assassin. Then to keep her safe, she gave her to the Skin Changers to raise.”

  “What are Skin Changers?”

  “They can look like anything: a person, an animal, even a tree. But to be one, you need to be capable of that kind of magic, and Jancy isn’t. The Skin Changers do teach her how to fight with swords and daggers and just her bare hands. And it’s been pretty clear for the last couple of books that Jancy does have a magical talent. But so far it hasn’t been revealed.”

  “Okay.” Ajay was more or less following.

  “And at the end of the last book, the king died, just like in the prophecy. But it wasn’t clear if Jancy caused his death, although she was blamed for it. The prophecy, like all prophecies, is subject to interpretation. And parts still haven’t been fulfilled. Readers really want to know what’s going to happen next.”

  Ajay nodded. “Even I know that that Haldon guy is late turning in the last one in the series. Is that why you’re listening to that old book—b
ecause there aren’t any new ones?”

  Her blue eyes sparked. “I don’t ever get tired of it. There’s always some new detail. And it’s not really his fault it’s late. Eyes of the Forest is going to be the last in the series. Bob’s going to have to tie everything up and answer all the questions he’s raised in the other books. Who’s going to win control of the kingdom and the magical mirror? Will the winged unicorns choose to fight with humans in the final battle against the Armies of the Night? Will Prince Orwen really help Jancy fight the undead, or will he betray her and join the Dark Emperor? And is he even really King Tristan’s son?” Bridget’s words sped up. “And who is Jancy’s true love—Prince Orwen or Rowan, the leader of the peasant rebellion?”

  Ajay tried to hold on to the pieces he had followed. “If their father is the same guy, isn’t Prince Orwen really Jancy’s half brother?” Before she could answer, he moved on. “Orwen and Rowan? Orwen and Rowan?” The two names were nearly identical. “How can you keep them straight?”

  She looked defensive. Ajay realized, too late, that he had struck a nerve. “You try naming literally thousands of characters. It’s not easy.”

  Something she’d said had been nagging him. “Wait a minute. Go back. You said some guy named Bob had to tie up everything with this last book. Aren’t they written by R. M. Haldon?”

  Now the color spread from her cheeks to the rest of her face. “R. M. stands for Robert Mark. But he goes by Bob.”

  “You almost sound like you know him. Doesn’t he live somewhere around here?” Ajay had seen Haldon in magazines and on TV. He was your standard middle-aged white guy, except that he always wore a violet silk scarf around his neck.

  Bridget looked away. “Those books have been part of my life for a long time. I started reading them when I was eight.”

  “Eight?” He was shocked, remembering the single episode of the TV show he had seen. It had seemed too graphic, even for him. “Isn’t that way too young?”

  “I snuck the first one from my mom. She was a big fan.”

  “Was?” Ajay echoed. “She doesn’t like them anymore?”

  Bridget swallowed. “She’s dead.”

  BOB

  I Don’t Think You Understand

  The need to pee had finally trumped Bob’s vow not to use the chamber pot. Afterward he’d shoved it back under the bed and tried to forget about it. Instead, he focused on the note.

  Better start writing Eyes of the Forest. Or else!

  From a writerly standpoint, Bob appreciated Derrick leaving the “or else” for him to fill in. The unknown was far worse than the known. And the reader always conjured up a more frightening threat than the writer could.

  Derrick wasn’t the only one who wanted Bob to finish Eyes of the Forest. Everyone was mad at him, starting with his publisher.

  The last time he’d seen Jamie, his editor, had been a few months ago. Bob had been in New York for a fantasy con, and Jamie insisted on taking him out to dinner. It was the kind of restaurant with no menus.

  Soon after they were seated, the waiter set down a mirrored tray. On it a short candle flickered next to a crusty loaf and lines of spices.

  No plates. They must be meant to share. At medieval banquets, the lord’s plate was piled high. If he so desired, everyone at the table could share his food, a high honor indeed.

  Bob wondered which one of them was the lord in this scenario.

  He sniffed. The candle smelled delicious—and oddly familiar.

  The waiter pointed. “Semolina baguette, accompanied by sumac, Maldon sea salt, spicebush berries, and our edible beef tallow candle. The chef made it by infusing rendered beef fat with rosemary, sage, and thyme.”

  As he spoke, he snuck a glance at Bob. It was getting harder and harder to be anonymous. At least at this restaurant there were fewer chances a stranger would demand a selfie or beg to be cast in the TV show.

  Jamie leaned forward and gently blew out the flame.

  Mouth watering, Bob tore off a section of bread. “Spreading animal fat on bread is an old practice,” he noted, smearing the hunk over what had been a candle. “Beef tallow was used in eighteenth-century England to moisten stale loaves.”

  Jamie smiled his tight little smile. “That’s one reason I thought you’d love this place. They bring the same passion to food you do to your books.” He smoothed his napkin over his thighs. His lapis blue suit was snug, not because he’d gained weight, but because that seemed to have become the fashion. His pants were as close as a second skin. It must be uncomfortable to sit. His shoes were the color of mahogany, with silver buckles, shiny and impregnable. Bob tucked his battered Nikes out of sight.

  In the Swords and Shadows series, the clothing of the wealthy was richly detailed with embroidery and trimmed with fur. Their arms, ears, fingers, and necks were festooned with gold jewelry studded with precious gems.

  Serena, the TV show’s wardrobe mistress, constantly pressed Bob for details. Would the petticoat under the queen’s dress be made of silk or cotton or linen? “A lot of TVs are the size of a movie screen now,” she’d told him. “After three or four viewings, fans start to notice even the tiniest details. That’s why we go to all this effort.”

  The last time Bob had been on set, she’d shown off the costumes for the fisherfolk. “We wove the fabric out of heavy wool and then coated it with fish oil to make it waterproof.” When Serena held one out to him, Bob was forced to step back, his hand over his nose. The smell was a dumpster on a hot day. “They do stink,” she said, “but they’re authentic.”

  Authentic to what? Bob had asked himself. To what he’d imagined sitting alone in his suburban study, cramming Doritos into his mouth and then typing on his plastic keyboard with orange-coated fingers?

  Nearly a hundred people worked under Serena, and she had more specialists on call. Bob’s words employed weavers, embroiderers, leather workers, armorers, and jewelers. To make the costumes appear realistically worn, a half-dozen textile artists were responsible for destroying and then repairing them.

  While Serena implied she would source the actual hides of flying unicorns if she could, an underling had once admitted to Bob that the rough black fur capes worn by the Armies of the Night had started life as IKEA area rugs with holes cut in the center for heads.

  Now Jamie looked at Bob meaningfully. He hadn’t taken a single bite. “So you’ve probably guessed what I want to talk about.”

  Bob didn’t answer. No good could come from talking about the book, which was years overdue. He tore off another hunk of bread, smeared it in the fat and spices, and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “I know this is delicate, Bob, but how is Eyes of the Forest coming along? I would love to schedule it. Of course it will be our lead title. We’ll build everything else around it for the season. For the year.”

  Bob pointed at his mouth, making a show of chewing. The true answer was the book was barely begun, but that clearly wasn’t a good answer.

  The waiter whisked away the remains of the bread. Seconds later, he was back with two scallop shells. “Scallop crudo served alongside its roe, smoked both on wood and over wood.”

  Bob didn’t know what most of that meant, except he was pretty sure crudo meant raw. He picked up the fork the waiter had brought and slowly put a piece in his mouth. It was rubbery. The roe popped between his teeth.

  Bob forced himself to swallow. While his characters ate pies with real animal claws poking out of the crust, or roasted peacocks re-dressed in their own feathers, he himself was not an adventurous eater.

  He still hadn’t answered Jamie.

  The other man broke the silence. “We need this book, Bob. I don’t think you understand how much. The last time the house was solidly in the black was the year Mountains of the Moon published.”

  That was well over three years ago. The publisher had kept the book in hardcover for more than two years, milking every last drop of profit, before finally releasing a trade paper edition. At one point, both the
paperback and the hardcover had been on the bestseller lists. They had also issued a collector’s edition bound in lambskin, and floated the idea of an “even more unique” edition printed with ink mixed with some of Bob’s blood (“Just one tube, Bob.”).

  He’d rejected the idea. But tonight he’d come prepared to say yes if it would get Jamie off his back.

  After taking away the shells, the waiter returned with two plates. “House-made pasta with local mushrooms collected by our on-staff forager, topped with an egg cooked in a spoon.”

  An on-staff forager? An egg cooked in a spoon? Bob shot Jamie an amused glance, but it was not returned. His editor would not be deterred.

  The books weren’t just Bob alone in a room with his thoughts anymore. Now hundreds of people depended on him. Thousands. Not just for entertainment, but for work. His agent, his publisher, all the foreign publishers, the bookstores. The TV show was just finishing up filming Mountains of the Moon, which they had broken into two seasons. But after that, there was no more source material. Then all those people—from the showrunner to Serena and on down to the stuntmen and caterers—would be out of a job.

  It was too much pressure. Bob had never asked for it. He just wanted to tell stories that interested him. Stories that surprised him. Where the characters refused to do what he’d planned and instead did something so unexpected all he could do was move his fingers over the keys and describe what he saw with his mind’s eye.

  Jamie filled the silence. “I’m guessing that after more than twenty years, you don’t want the series to end, Bob, but it doesn’t have to.” He leaned forward, not noticing as his tie pressed against a tallow smear on the tablecloth the waiter had missed. “No one is going to complain if what was originally supposed to be your last book isn’t. Just give us a book. Any book. We can copyedit and get it out within eight weeks, like we did last time.”