The Invisible Tower

by Nils Johnson-Shelton

  He shut down the system, ran to his room, and dived under the covers, where he concluded that, yes, he’d just had his leg pulled and it was just coincidence that his name was Arthur, and there was an Easter egg in Otherworld that was addressed to somebody also named Arthur. Yes, that’s what it was. A coincidence.

  Eventually Artie fell into an uneasy sleep.

  Six days after Artie’s Easter egg hunt, about which he had decided to never tell a soul, as Artie was reading the latest X-Men on his bed, the telephone rang. He didn’t move to answer because he knew Kynder, who was in his room packing for their trip to the tournament in Cincinnati, would get it.

  After a pause Artie heard a muffled but insistent “Who?” through the wall but didn’t pay it much mind. Then he heard something in Kynder’s voice he’d never heard before: fear. It was sudden and undeniable.

  “My ex-wife? Oh my. It is you.” Artie sat bolt upright and dropped his comic book. A call from her was about as likely as a call from a giant saber-toothed tiger.

  Artie crept to the wall and pressed his ear to it. Kynder said, “Why on earth are you calling me now? And why do you sound so far away? No one sounds far away anymore.” Kynder’s fear was gone. It had been replaced with anger. Artie felt proud of his dad.

  “Really, I don’t care. What do you want?”

  Pause.

  “What? How do you know about that? What do you mean?”

  Pause.

  Kynder sounded extra flabbergasted when he asked, “Why on earth not?”

  Short pause.

  “What do you mean, it’s not safe? It’s Ohio, not Afghanistan.”

  Pause.

  “What? Since when do you care about the children? Since when do you care about anyone but yourself?”

  Artie remembered that there was an old corded phone with a busted ringer in the hall. He left his room and tiptoed to it and carefully picked up the receiver. A weak voice finished saying, “not safe for me—or you, either.”

  For a moment Kynder said nothing. Then, very forcefully, he said, “Listen. You’re loony. I’m hanging up now. For the last time, good-bye! Don’t ever call here again!” And he hung up. Kynder had cut her off so abruptly that Artie was sure she’d call back. But she didn’t. The phone didn’t ring again at all.

  3

  IN WHICH ARTIE MEETS AN OLD, CRAZY TATTOOED DUDE

  Artie didn’t know what to say about the phone call. He wanted to tell Kay but he couldn’t bring himself to. Kynder didn’t mention it either.

  So the Kingfishers left for Cincinnati early on Thursday morning, as if the phone call had never happened.

  They pulled into a downtown Hilton at one o’clock and checked in. Then Kynder left Artie with the room service menu while he took Kay to register for the tournament, which was slated to get started at noon on Friday.

  Artie ordered a hamburger with curly fries and a Coke and hooked up the Xbox to the room’s TV. He looked in Kay’s bag for her lucky controller—a shiny silver number that she’d adorned with faux jewels—but he couldn’t find it. She must have had it with her. Room service came, and he reclined in the lounger while eating and channel surfing.

  When Kay and Kynder got back, Kay went over to the game console and said, “Thanks, Homey, for hooking this up.”

  “No sweat, Kay.”

  She picked up the standard-issue controller and turned it in her hand. “Where’s my lucky controller, though?”

  Kynder pilfered a fistful of Artie’s fries.

  Artie said, “Dunno. I thought you had it with you.”

  “No. It’s in my bag.”

  “Uh, no, it isn’t.”

  “Uh, yes, it is—oh no!” Kay’s eyes widened as she dug through her stuff. “Omigod, I can’t believe it but, but… I think I left my controller at home!” She stood in front of the TV and started to pull her hair. “Seriously, Kynder, what am I going to do?”

  Kynder sat on the foot of one of the beds. He put his hands on his knees and said, “Kay, let’s try to stay calm. Maybe we can get someone to FedEx it, or maybe we can get you another controller and have it blessed or something before the tournament starts.”

  Kay plopped down next to Kynder. “No way. I can’t win with some vanilla out-of-the-box thing.”

  Artie suddenly remembered something. “Kay, you know Erik? He used to live here. We could call him to see if there’s a good place to get a custom controller.”

  “Erik? Ugh.” Kay sighed. Erik sat behind Kay in art class, where his favorite pastime was pelting her with eraser nubs he’d yanked off number two pencils. In other words, he liked her. “Okay. I guess so.”

  Kynder stood up and clapped his hands. “Great. Why don’t you give him a call, Arthur?” He stole another fistful of Artie’s fries.

  Artie got out Kynder’s cell phone and dialed Erik. Kynder pointed at Artie’s hamburger and said, “You know, Arthur, you really shouldn’t eat that. Do you know what they feed those cows?”

  Artie did and honestly didn’t care. He was twelve.

  Erik picked up, and Artie had a quick conversation with him near the window. He hung up and said, “Well, Erik said he’d go over to our house and get the controller if you want—”

  Kay interrupted. “I don’t think so. I don’t want Erik Erikssen poking around my room. Like, at all.”

  “Right. But he also said that there’s a crazy store we should check out—some place called the Invisible Tower. It’s like a comics-slash-gaming-slash-D-and-D shop run by a really strange old dude. They sell custom controllers—Erik has two from the store himself. I’ve seen them. They’re pretty sweet.”

  Kynder, now fixated on Artie’s meal, held up the Coke. “Arthur, you know how I feel about soda pop! You know I think you drink more than you should, right?”

  “Dad!” Kay yelled. Kay reserved the use of that word for only the direst of circumstances.

  Kynder put down the soda. “Oh, right. Okay. Arthur, since you’ve already ‘eaten,’ why don’t you find out where this Invincible Tower place—”

  “Invisible Tower, Kynder,” Artie corrected.

  “Whatever it’s called, find out where it is and take a cab to check it out. Kay—why don’t you and I go get some lunch? You’ll feel better.”

  Kay reluctantly agreed and shuffled off to the bathroom. Artie looked up the place on their laptop. “It’s only six blocks away, Kynder.”

  “Fine. Here’s some money. Only spend it on cabs and the controller, if there’s a good one.”

  “Got it.”

  “Bring me the receipt. And try not to be gone for more than an hour.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  As Artie passed the bathroom, he could hear his sister sniffling. He resolved to help her however he could.

  The doorman flagged a cab and Artie climbed in. The young driver was huge and wore reflective aviator sunglasses and he would have been menacing-looking if he hadn’t also had a baby face that was smiling the whole time.

  After a short ride they pulled up to the store. As Artie paid, the driver lowered his sunglasses and gave him a pronounced—and slightly creepy—wink in the mirror.

  Artie hopped out of the cab and hurried away, but when he saw the Invisible Tower for the first time, he immediately forgot about the weird cab driver.

  It was located on the ground floor of a squat, hundred-year-old red-brick building with gray granite lintels and stonework lettering in an arch below the roof line that read “Vine Street Cable Railway.” There were plenty of tall plateglass windows lining the sidewalk, and displayed in them were the contents of every twelve-year-old’s dreams.

  There were action figures, masks, books, posters, costumes, games, swords and axes and arrows. There were Batman, Spider-Man, Iron Man; there were Halo warriors, rogue-looking special ops members, not-to-be-messed-with lady commandos; there were Frankenstein, Dracula, and the Mummy; Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Avatar; all manner
of Tolkienesque wizards, elves, trolls, orcs, fairies, and sprites; robots, Transformers, droids; dragons, snakes, hydras; screaming manga heroes on motorcycles and doeeyed anime girls in private-school miniskirts; generic monsters and godly titans of every kind and at every stage of decay or anger or sorrow. The logos in the windows included Marvel, Dark Horse, Wizards of the Coast, DC, D&D, Transformers, Sony, Xbox, and Lucasfilm.

  Artie pulled open the store’s heavy oak front door. A brass bell attached to it tinkled. He could swear that in the little bell’s ring was a voice that said, “Welcome, good sir.”

  But bells couldn’t talk, right?

  He crossed the threshold. Artie couldn’t explain it, but as he did, he felt stronger. It was like he’d gained twenty pounds of muscle. His fingertips tingled. His hunched back—the default posture for any tallish preteen who preferred to keep a low profile—straightened out. He turned his neck from side to side and it cracked. He took a deep breath. He felt amazing.

  The inside of the store was dimly lit. The windows were totally blocked by all of the stuff on display in them, and Artie couldn’t see outside at all. Not even a crack of sunlight. Artie blinked as his eyes adjusted.

  The shop was narrow and high ceilinged. There were three rows of lofty shelves stretched out before him. On the end of one of the shelves was a large sign in silver letters that read:

  SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PUNISHED. MALCONTENTS WILL BE BANNED. LOYALISTS WILL BE BLESSED.

  —MANAGEMENT

  Something about its lettering conveyed its seriousness. Artie instinctively doubted that the Invisible Tower was robbed very often, if at all.

  He walked around and touched the shelves and the spines of the books and comics with reverence. Things were crammed together and not always well organized. Low, Celtic-sounding music played over a tinny sound system from beyond the bookshelves.

  Artie suddenly remembered what he was there for and wandered deeper into the place, looking for the video game stuff.

  At the back of the store was a checkout counter unlike any he’d ever seen. Instead of the usual waist-high case with a cash register on top, there was a hulking ebony-black desk that looked plain ancient. Its legs were carved in the shape of a draft horse’s—hooves, muscles, tendons, and all. On top of the table was a gigantic and ornate cash register. There was also a normal-looking ledger, a brass desk bell, and a liter bottle of water.

  No one was behind the desk. Artie stepped forward to ring the bell, and that’s when he saw them.

  In a locked case to his right were the customized gaming controllers. There was one for PlayStation encased in snakeskin, another that was fire-engine red, and an Xbox one that was striped like a tiger and had little cat eyes for buttons. There was a pink one with orange flames on it, and a glittery purple one with silver buttons. There were also several boxes of standard controllers that hadn’t been opened. But, above all these, on the highest shelf and with a light shining on it, was a golden Xbox controller that looked like it was made of real metal. All of its buttons were jet-black, and its connector cable was red velvet. It was, without a doubt, one of the coolest things Artie had ever seen. In front of it was a small placard with golden handlettering that read, “Display Only.”

  “Ahem.”

  Artie turned. Standing behind the black desk was an old man in a red long-sleeved T-shirt and billowing linen pants. He was shorter than Artie, and thin like Kynder, but he had a little gut that filled out his shirt. His skin was very wrinkled yet very healthy-looking. He had on round eyeglasses and a black porkpie hat, and had huge sideburns that curled below his jawline. He wore a long necklace with some sort of wooden pendant weighing it down.

  The old man smiled like a Buddha, and Artie couldn’t help but move toward him. As he got closer, Artie realized that what he’d taken for deep wrinkles on the man’s face was in fact a maze of black tattoos crisscrossing in every direction.

  “Like what you see, eh?” His voice was clear and substantial sounding.

  “Uh, yes sir. I’ve never been in a place like this before.”

  “Yes, it is pretty cool, isn’t it?” He chuckled and placed his hands palm down on the desk.

  “Say, uh, I was wondering—”

  “The golden one? Display only, like it says.”

  “So does that mean you have others like it that are for sale?”

  The man looked down at the table and chuckled again. Without looking up, he said, “No, I’m afraid not, child. Can I ask you something, though?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure. And I’m almost thirteen. I’m not really a child anymore.”

  “Ah, pardon me. To these eyes, everyone seems a child. Here’s what I want to ask: May I try to guess your name?”

  That was weird, but hey—why not? “Okay. Shoot.”

  “Excellent.” The old man laced his fingers together and closed his eyes. He rocked easily on his feet. “Hmm. Yes. You’ve got a royal name, I think. An old name. English. Not Charles. Not Henry or James. Edward? No, no. I think it starts with A.” Artie felt his palms clam up. Then the man stopped rocking, opened his hands and his eyes, and leveled a gaze on Artie that made his knees buckle. “You’re Arthur!”

  Artie couldn’t believe it. Then suddenly the message from the Otherworld game, the one he’d forced himself to forget, hit him like a bolt of lightning: Arthur. In one week’s time you will come to me at the IT. You are special, Arthur, and I have need of your service and power. I have been waiting so long for you. Your humble servant, M.

  The IT. Invisible Tower.

  Which made this old guy M.

  Artie took a small step backward as he realized that the Easter egg had not been a coincidence at all.

  Then a silly notion sprang into his mind. He said, “Yeah, and I guess that makes you Merlin, huh?”

  The words, while his own, sounded utterly ridiculous. Arthur and Merlin, together alone, in some geek-fest comic-book-collectors’ shop called the Invisible Tower.

  The old man smiled and took a deep breath before he spoke. “I’ve gone by many names, dear Arthur, some kind and some horrific. Lately I’ve been known as Lyn. Many of the children who enjoy my shop just call me “dude,” which is a little absurd but fine by me. Merlin, though. My goodness.”

  Artie developed a lump in his throat the size of a tennis ball. He choked it back and asked, “So wait. You are, like, Merlin?”

  “Aha! There you go again. So easily you say it! Part of the spell has already been broken. The first stones have begun to crumble. So soon I am in your debt.”

  Artie was thoroughly confused, and a little scared. He asked, “What are you talking about, mister?”

  The man ignored Artie’s trepidation and said, “Arthur, my boy, you may find this hard to believe, but there is magic at work here that has kept me from my proper name for nearly as long as I can remember…” The old man looked at the ceiling then at the huge desk. He looked back at Artie. “Merlin! Not even I have been able to say it! Merlin. Merlin!” Each time he said it, he got quieter and quieter, until he was whispering, “Merlin.”

  Artie asked weakly, “So what exactly are you saying?”

  “What I’m saying is that you are special, my boy. You see me as I am. Most people look at me and maybe they begin to think of Merlin, but then that idea is dashed from their mind. But you! You see me as I am,” he repeated with wonder. “Tell me—what is the strangest thing about the way I look?”

  Artie felt supremely uneasy, but this was a simple question to answer. “Your tattoos, sir,” he said.

  The old man beamed. “Exactly. Come here, I want to show you something.”

  Artie didn’t want to go anywhere with this old freak, yet something about his tone enraptured him. He had to hear the old guy out. He said, “All the same, sir, I’d like to stay where I am. If you have something to show me, you’ll have to show it to me from over there.”

  The man waved his hands through the air comfortingly and said, “Of course, of course. Here. Look.�
�� He bent down and lifted a small color TV onto the great desk. It took Artie a second to realize that he was looking at live surveillance images of the store. The bookshelves, the toy cases, the front door, the desk. There he was, and there was the old man. The man took off his hat. Something was different. Artie took a step forward and looked closely. The man in the monitor was bald but didn’t appear to have a single tattoo on his head. Artie turned quickly to the man. He nodded. His head was definitely crisscrossed by a swarm of lines and runes and shapes, all in dark ink. Artie looked back at the monitor. It was as if the man on the screen had been washed clean.

  “How are you doing that?”

  “That is how most everyone sees me. As I said, Arthur, you are special. You are very special, my boy.”

  A shiver ran down Artie’s spine.

  “Special? You mean something’s wrong with me?”

  “No, no! Nothing is wrong with you. You are King Arthur, the only one who can break the spell and say my name. Which means, of course, that I am Merlin!”

  This was too much. The heck with Kay’s special controller. No way this old guy was the real Merlin and Artie was some kind of reincarnation of King Arthur. What did that even mean? That he was the king of England? Artie had never even been to England!

  Surely Artie was going insane. Yeah, that was it.

  Artie backpedaled. “I, uh, I’ve got to get out of here, mister. I’m thinking you’re probably just a crazy old tattooed dude and I shouldn’t be talking to you.” Not looking where he was going, he bumped into a shelf and spun around a little. He had to look away to catch himself, and when he turned back, the man had moved from behind the desk and right up to Artie’s side.

  Artie backed quickly toward the exit, but while he did, the old man held his hands open in front of him and pleaded, “Please, child, hear me out! You are special! A king, I swear it! Ask your father, if you don’t believe me! Ask how you came to him!”