Of course not,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘The tints come from the sands they’re made of and help us keep the Lenses straight. They’re not intended to make things look different.’
‘I just . . . thought the glasses would do something.’
‘They do,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘They show you things that you need to see. It’s just subtle, lad. Wear them for a while – let your eyes get used to them.’
‘All right . . .’ I glanced over as Grandpa Smedry knelt to put the tray back inside the broken box. ‘What’s that book?’
Grandpa Smedry looked up ‘Hmmm? This?’ He picked up the small book, handing it to me. I opened to the first page. It was filled with scribbles, as if made by a child.
‘The Forgotten Language,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘We’ve been trying to decipher it for centuries – your father worked on that book for a while, before you were born. He thought its secrets might lead him to the Sands of Rashid.’
‘This isn’t a language,’ I said. ‘It’s just a bunch of scribbles.’
‘Well, any language you don’t understand would just look like scribbles, lad!’
I flipped through the pages of the book. It was filled with completely random circles, zigzags, loop-dee-loops, and the like. There were no patterns. Some of the pages only had a couple marks on them; others were so black with ink that they looked like a child’s rendition of a tornado.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t think so. A language has to make patterns! There’s nothing like that in here.’
‘That’s the big secret, lad,’ Grandpa Smedry said, taking back the book. ‘Why do you think nobody, despite centuries of trying, has managed to break the code? The Incarna people – the ones who wrote in this language – held vast secrets. Unfortunately, nobody can read their records, and the Incarna disappeared many centuries ago.’
I wrinkled my brow at the strange comments. Grandpa Smedry stood up, stepping away from the glass box. And, suddenly, the shattered front of the box melted and reformed its glassy surface.
I stepped back in shock. Then I reached up, suspiciously pulling off my glasses. Yet the box still sat pristine, as if it hadn’t been broken in the first place.
‘Restoring Glass,’ Grandpa Smedry said, nodding toward the box. ‘Only an Oculator can break it. Once he moves too far away, however, it will reform into its previous shape. Makes for wonderful safes. It’s even stronger than Builder’s Glass, if used right.’
I slipped my Lenses back on.
‘Tell me, lad,’ Grandpa Smedry said, laying a hand on my shoulder, ‘why did you burn down your foster parents’ kitchen?’
I started. That wasn’t the question I’d been expecting. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘Why, I’m an Oculator, of course.’
I just frowned.
‘So why?’ he asked. ‘Why burn it down?’
‘It was an accident,’ I replied.
‘Was it?’
I looked away. Of course it was an accident, I thought, feeling a bit of shame. Why would I do something like that on purpose?
Grandpa Smedry was studying me. ‘You have a Talent for breaking things,’ he said. ‘Or so you have said. Yet lighting fire to a set of drapes and ruining a kitchen with smoke doesn’t seem like a use of that Talent. Particularly if you let the fire burn for a while before putting it out. That’s not breaking. That seems more like destroying.’
‘I don’t destroy,’ I said quietly.
‘Why, then?’ Grandpa Smedry said.
I shrugged. What was he implying? Did he think I liked messing things up all the time? Did he think I liked being forced to move every few months? It seemed that every time I came to love someone, they decided that my Talent was just too much to handle.
I felt a stab of loneliness but shoved it down.
‘Ah,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘You won’t answer, I see. But I can still wonder, can’t I? Why would a boy do such damage to the homes of such kind people? It seems like a perversion of his Talent. Yes, indeed . . .’
I said nothing. Grandpa Smedry just smiled at me, then straightened his bow tie and checked his wristwatch. ‘Garbled Greens! We’re late. Sing! Quentin!’
‘We’re ready, Uncle!’ a voice called from down the hallway.
‘Ah, good,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘Come, my boy. Let me introduce you to your cousins!’
4
Hushlanders, I’d like to take this opportunity to commend you for reading this book. I realize the difficulty you must have gone through to obtain it – after all, no Librarian is likely to recommend it, considering the secrets it exposes about their kind.
Actually, my experience has been that people generally don’t recommend this kind of book at all. It is far too interesting. Perhaps you have had other kinds of books recommended to you. Perhaps, even, you have been given books by friends, parents, or teachers, then told that these books are the type you ‘have to read.’ Those books are invariably described as ‘important’ – which, in my experience, pretty much means that they’re boring. (Words like meaningful and thoughtful are other good clues.)
If there is a boy in these kinds of books, he will not go on an adventure to fight against Librarians, paper monsters, and one-eyed Dark Oculators. In fact, the lad will not go on an adventure or fight against anything at all. Instead, his dog will die. Or, in some cases, his mother will die. If it’s a really meaningful book, both his dog and his mother will die. (Apparently, most writers have something against dogs and mothers.)
Neither my mother nor my dog dies in this book. I’m rather tired of those types of stories. In my opinion, such fantastical, unrealistic books – books in which boys live on mountains, families work on farms, or anyone has anything to do with the Great Depression – have a tendency to rot the brain. To combat such silliness, I’ve written the volume you now hold – a solid, true account. Hopefully, it will help anchor you in reality.
So, when people try to give you some book with a shiny round award on the cover, be kind and gracious, but tell them that you don’t read ‘fantasy,’ because you prefer stories that are real. Then come back here and continue your research on the cult of evil Librarians who secretly rule the world.
‘This,’ Grandpa Smedry proclaimed, pointing to Sing, ‘is your cousin Sing Sing Smedry. He’s a specialist in ancient weapons.’
Sing nodded modestly. He had exchanged his tunic for what appeared to be a formal kimono – though he still wore his dark sunglasses. The kimono was of a very rich dark blue silk and, though it fit him quite well, there was something . . . wrong about the entire presentation. More than just the fact that the kimono itself wasn’t something a regular person in America wore. Sing’s chest parted the front of the silk, and the loose garment hung tied about the waist with a large sash tucked beneath his massive stomach.
‘Uh, nice to meet you Sing . . . Sing,’ I said.
‘You can just call me Sing,’ the large man replied.
‘Ask him what his Talent is,’ Grandpa whispered.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Um, what’s your Talent, Sing?’
‘I can trip and fall to the ground,’ Sing said.
I blinked. ‘That’s a Talent?’
‘It’s not as grand as some, I know,’ Sing said, ‘but it serves me well.’
‘And the kimono?’ I asked.
‘I come from a different kingdom than your grandfather,’ Sing said. ‘I am from Mokia, while your grandfather and Quentin are from Melerand.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But what difference does that make?’
‘It means I have to wear a different disguise from the rest of you,’ Sing explained. ‘That way, I won’t stand out as much. If I look like a foreigner to America, people will ignore me.’
I paused. ‘Whatever,’ I finally said.
‘It makes perfect sense,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘Trust me. We’ve researched this.’ He turned and pointed to the other man. ‘Now, this is your cousin Quentin Smedry.’ Short and wiry, Q
uentin wore a sharp tuxedo like that of Grandpa Smedry, complete with a red carnation on the lapel. He had dark brown hair, pale skin, and freckles. Like Sing, he looked to be about thirty years old.
‘Well met, young Oculator,’ Quentin said from behind his dark sunglasses.
‘And what is your Talent?’ I dutifully asked.
‘I can say things that make absolutely no sense whatsoever.’
‘I thought everyone here had that Talent,’ I noted.
Nobody laughed. Free Kingdomers never get my jokes.
‘He’s also really sneaky,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
Quentin nodded.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘So, are both of you . . . Oculators?’
‘Oh, goodness no,’ Sing said. ‘We’re cousins to the Smedry family, not members of the direct line.’
‘Didn’t you notice the glasses?’ Grandpa Smedry asked. ‘They’re wearing Warrior’s Lenses, one of the only kinds of Lenses that a non-Oculator can use.’
‘Um, yes,’ I said. ‘Actually, I did notice the glasses. I . . . noticed the tuxedos too. Is there a reason you dress like that? If we go out like this, we’ll kind of stand out, right?’
‘Maybe the young lord has a point,’ Sing said, rubbing his chin.
Lord? I thought. I had no idea what to make of that.
‘Should we get Alcatraz a disguise too, Lord Smedry?’ Quentin asked my grandfather.
‘No, no,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘He isn’t supposed to wear a suit at his age. At least, I don’t think . . .’
‘I’m fine,’ I said quickly.
The collection of Smedrys nodded.
Now, many of you Hushlanders may be scoffing at the disguises used by the Smedry group. Before you pass judgment on them, realize that they were somewhat out of their element. Imagine if you were suddenly thrust into a different culture, with very little knowledge of its customs or fashions. Would you know the difference between a Rounsfield tunic and a Larkian tunic? Would you be able to distinguish when to wear a batoled and when to wear a carfoo? Would you even know where you wrap a Carlflogian wickerstrap? No? Well, that’s because I just made all of those items up. But you didn’t know that, did you?
Therefore, my point is proven. All things considered, I think the Smedrys did quite well. I’ve seen other infiltration teams – ones without Grandpa Smedry, who is widely held as the Free Kingdoms’ foremost expert on American culture and society. The last group that tried an infiltration without him ended up trying to sneak into the Federal Reserve Bank disguised as potted plants.
They got watered.
‘Are we ready, then?’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘My grandson will be leading this infiltration. Our target is the central downtown library.’
Sing and Quentin glanced at each other, looking a bit surprised. Grandpa had mentioned a library infiltration to Sing, but apparently the downtown library was not what he’d expected. It made me wonder, once again, what I was getting myself into.
‘I realize this will be a most ambitious mission, gentlemen,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘But we have no choice. Our goal is to recover the legendary Sands of Rashid, which the Librarians have acquired through some very clever scheming and plotting.’
Grandpa Smedry turned, nodding to me. ‘The sands belong to my grandson, and so he will be lead Oculator on this mission. Once we breach the initial stacks, we’ll split into two groups and search for the sands. Gather as much information as you can, and recover the sands at all costs. Any questions?’
Quentin raised his hand. ‘What exactly does this bag of sand do?’
Grandpa Smedry wavered. ‘We don’t actually know,’ he admitted. ‘Before this, nobody had ever managed to gather enough of them to smelt a Lens. Or, at least, nobody had managed to do it during our recorded history. There are vague legends, however. The Lenses of Rashid are supposed to be very powerful. They will be a great danger to the people of the Free Kingdoms if they are allowed to fall into Librarian hands.’
The room fell silent. Finally, Sing raised a meaty hand. ‘Does this mean I can bring weapons?’
‘Of course,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘Can I bring lots of weapons?’ Sing asked carefully.
‘Whatever you deem necessary, Sing,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘You’re the specialist. But go quickly! We’re going to be late.’
Sing nodded, dashing back down his hallway.
‘And you?’ Grandpa Smedry asked of Quentin.
‘I’m fine,’ the short man said. ‘But . . . my lord, don’t you think we should tell Bastille what we’re doing?’
‘Jabbering Jordans, no!’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘Absolutely not. I forbid it.’
‘She’s not going to be happy . . .’ Quentin said.
‘Nonsense,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘She enjoys being ignored – it gives her an excuse to be grumpy. Now, since we have to wait for Sing to get his weapons, I’m going to go get something to eat. I was clever enough to pack some lunches for myself and the lad. Coming, Alcatraz?’
I shrugged, and we made our way out though the cooler – passing the armored knights – and walked back into the shop. Grandpa Smedry nodded to the two hillbilly attendants, then walked out toward his car, apparently going to grab the briefcases stuffed with food.
I didn’t follow him. At that point, I still felt a little overwhelmed by what was happening to me. Part of me couldn’t believe what I had seen, so I decided to see if I could figure out how they were hiding that huge room inside. I turned, wandering around to the back of the small service station, then I carefully paced off the lengths of its walls.
The building was a rectangle, ten paces long on two sides, eighteen paces long on the other two. Yet the room inside had been far larger. A basement? I wondered. (Yes, I realize that it took me quite some time to accept that the place was magical. You Free Kingdomers really have no idea what it’s like to live in Librarian-controlled areas. So, stop judging me and just keep reading.)
I kept at it, trying to figure out some logical explanation. I squatted down on the hot, tar-stained concrete, trying to find a slope in the ground. I stood up, eyeing the back of the building, which was set with a small window. I grabbed a broken chair from a nearby Dumpster, then climbed up to peek in the window.
I couldn’t see anything through the dark glass. I pressed my face against it – bumping my glasses against the window – and shaded the sunlight with my hand, but I still couldn’t see inside.
I leaned back, sighing. But . . . then it seemed as if I could see something. Not through the window, but alongside it. The edges of the window seemed to fuzz just a little bit, and I got the distinct, strange impression that I could see through the wall’s siding.
I pulled off my glasses. The illusion disappeared, and the wall looked perfectly normal. I put them back on, and nothing really changed. Yet, as I stared at the wall, I felt the odd sense again. As if I could just barely see something. I cocked my head, teetering on the broken chair. Finally, I reached up a hand, laying it against the white siding.
Then I broke it.
I didn’t really do much. I didn’t have to twist, pull, or yank. I just rested my hand against the wall for a moment, and one of the siding planks popped free and toppled to the ground. Through the broken section, I could see the true wall of the building.
Glass. The entire wall was made of a deep lavender glass.
I saw through the siding, I thought. Was it my glasses that let me do that?
A footstep sounded on the gravel behind me.
I jumped, almost slipping off the chair. And there he was: the man from my house, the caseworker – or whatever he was – with the suit and the gun. I wobbled, feeling terror rise again. Of course he would chase us. Of course he would find us. What was I thinking? Why hadn’t I just called the police?
‘Lad?’ Grandpa Smedry’s voice called. He appeared around the corner, holding an open briefcase smeared with ketchup. ‘Your sand-burger is ready. Aren’t you hungry?’
The man with the gun spun around, weapon still raised. ‘Don’t move!’ he yelled nervously. ‘Stay right there!’
‘Hmm?’ Grandpa Smedry asked, still walking.
‘Grandpa!’ I screamed as the caseworker pulled the trigger.
The gun went off.
There was a loud crack, and a chunk of siding blew off the building right in front of Grandpa Smedry. The old man continued to walk along, smiling to himself, looking completely relaxed.
The caseworker fired again, then again. Both times, the bullets hit the wall right in front of Grandpa Smedry.
Now, a true hero would have tackled the man who was shooting his grandfather, or done something else equally heroic. I am not a true hero. I stood frozen with shock.
‘Here now,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘What’s going on?’
Looking desperate, the caseworker pointed his gun back at me and pulled the trigger. The consequences, of course, were immediate.
The clip dropped out of the bottom of the gun.
The top of the weapon fell off.
The gun’s trigger popped free, propelled by a broken spring.
The screws fell out of the gun’s sides, dropping to the pavement.
The caseworker widened his eyes in disbelief, watching as the last part of the handle fell to pieces in his hand. In a final moment of indignity, the dying gun belched up a bit of metal – an unfired bullet – which spun in the air a few times before clicking down to the ground.
The man stared at the pieces of his weapon.
Grandpa Smedry paused beside me. ‘I think you broke it,’ he whispered to me.
The caseworker turned and scrambled away. Grandpa Smedry watched him go, a sly smile on his lips.
‘What did you do?’ I asked.
‘Me?’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘No, you’re the one who did that! At a distance, even! I’ve rarely seen a Talent work with such power. Though it’s a shame to ruin a good antique weapon like that.’
‘I . . .’ I looked at the gun pieces, my heart thumping. ‘It couldn’t have been me. I’ve never done anything like that before.’
Alcatraz Page 4
