The First Story
C. Bradley Owens
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
©2018 C. Bradley Owens
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher, except for use in brief quotations as permitted by United States copyright law.
Published by Authors 4 Authors Publishing
11700 Mukilteo Speedway Ste 201 PM 1044
Mukilteo, WA 98275
www.authors4authorspublishing.com
E-book ISBN: 978-1-64477-000-9
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64477-001-6
Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-64477-002-3
Edited by Rebecca Mikkelson
Proofread by B. C. Marine
Cover design and illustration ©2018 Sam Dutter. All rights reserved.
Authors 4 Authors Content Rating and copyright are set in Poppins by default.
All other text is set in URW Classico by default.
Authors 4 Authors Content Rating
This title has been rated 14+ appropriate for teens and contains:
moderate language
intense violence
violent hate crime
brief implied sex
moderate alcohol use
LGBTQ+ discussion
For more information on our rating system, please, visit our Content Guide .
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all of the daydreamers. The ones who escape to fantasy and feel more comfortable there. I understand you.
Table of Contents
Prologue: The Toy Peddler
Chapter 1
Chapter 2: A Meeting in the Woods
Chapter 3
Chapter 4: Consultation with the Chittering Underground
Chapter 5
Chapter 6: A Meeting at the Inn
Chapter 7: The Puppeteer
Chapter 8
Chapter 9: The Innkeeper
Chapter 10
Chapter 11: Frau Iver
Chapter 12: A Rough Start
Chapter 13: The Dottore
Chapter 14: Something’s Not Right
Chapter 15
Chapter 16: The Damsel’s Lament
Chapter 17: Taking Inventory
Chapter 18: The Inn at the Edge of the Woods
Chapter 19: Making a Plan
Chapter 20
Chapter 21: A Broken Toy
Chapter 22: Accusations
Chapter 23: The Perpetual Danger
Chapter 24: Separating Is a Plan
Chapter 25: Baba Vedma
Chapter 26
Chapter 27: An Appointment with the Dottore
Chapter 28: Paroxysm
Chapter 29: Further Complications
Chapter 30: The Tower of Destiny
Chapter 31: Leaving the Path
Chapter 32
Chapter 33: A Gingerbread House
Chapter 34: Droll Mary
Chapter 35: Further Developments
Chapter 36: A New Council
Chapter 37
Chapter 38: The Origamist
Chapter 39: Newly Acquainted Old Friends
Chapter 40: The Angler
Chapter 41: A Small Corner of Creativity
Chapter 42
Chapter 43: A Growl and a Web
Chapter 44: In the Dark
Chapter 45: Daybreak
Chapter 46: Below the Horizon
Chapter 47
Chapter 48: Travis, in Sales
Chapter 49: The Warehouse
Chapter 50: The Newlyweds
Chapter 51
Chapter 52: The Conspirators
Chapter 53: A Drink at the Inn
Chapter 54: Another Meeting in the Woods
Chapter 55: A Plan
Chapter 56: The Keeper of Ways
Chapter 57: Flux
Chapter 58: The Caves of Providence
Chapter 59: Confrontation
Chapter 60
Chapter 61: Meanwhile, in the Cave
Chapter 62
Chapter 63: Rally
Chapter 64
Chapter 65: One More Complication
Chapter 66
Chapter 67: Abend
Chapter 68: More Flux
Chapter 69: Clarity
Chapter 70: The Sea
Chapter 71
Chapter 72: Flux 2.0
Chapter 73: Parley
Chapter 74: Wizards and Dragons
Chapter 75: A New Reality
Chapter 76
Chapter 77: A New Story
Chapter 78: A New Beginning
Chapter 79: One More
Chapter 80: A Place for All
Chapter 81: The Passenger
Chapter 82: A Walk through the Forest
Chapter 83
Chapter 84: Epilogue, the First
PART TWO
Chapter 85: The Slashing Hero
Chapter 86: Interlude
Chapter 87: Erde
Chapter 88
Chapter 89: Consultation with a Duality
Chapter 90: The Power of Flight
Chapter 91: Judgment
Chapter 92
Chapter 93: The Magic Board
Chapter 94: The Sisters of Creation
Chapter 95: Little Girl Detective
Chapter 96: Magnus Woolgather and the Wish for the Day
Chapter 97: A Meeting of Elders
Chapter 98
Chapter 99: A Confrontation
Chapter 100: An Untold Tale
Chapter 101: A Coming War
Chapter 102: A Secret Cave
Chapter 103: War
Chapter 104: Descent
Chapter 105: The Unmaking
Chapter 106
Chapter 107: Nothing
Chapter 108
Chapter 109: The World Unmade
Chapter 110
Chapter 111: Untitled
Chapter 112
Chapter 113: Epilogue, the Second
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
The Toy Peddler
Out of the mists of a dreary night, the Toy Peddler came to sell his wares. His long, slender legs, affixed with large paddle-like feet, shuffled over the cobblestones and carried him through the early morning mist. His burden, a large sack filled to overflowing with toys of every description, perched atop his bony shoulders and was much lighter than it should have been.
“Toys for sale or trade! Come to me, children!” His cry rang out, and the children came.
They came from their homes, streaming into the night, hoping for that perfect toy, and they were not disappointed. The Toy Peddler’s stockpile of toys flowed freely from the sack, and the children gave up their money happily in exchange.
One child received the perfect doll; another got the perfect truck, or stuffed animal, or puzzle box. The selection was impressively targeted; each child got just what he or she desired. The Toy Peddler smiled in response to all the satisfied customers, but he was waiting for something in particular to happen.
On and on they came, but the sack full of toys never diminished, not even by one single, solitary bouncing ball.
“I want a doll!” one young girl demanded suddenly from behind the Toy Peddler. Her fine nightgown, adorned with silk ribbons that matched perfectly the ones tying up her yellow hair in equal length pigtails, revealed her high station in life. The fistful of paper money confirmed her standing.
The Toy Peddler turned and looked down at the little girl hold
ing the bills out in his direction. It was far too much for any regular doll. He thrust his hand into the toy bag and rifled through his stock until he found want he wanted. He held the doll in front of the girl; she reached for the toy. The delicately painted porcelain face, the exquisitely tailored gown, the bows, the hair; it was the perfect doll for such a wealthy patron.
“What do you have to trade?” the Toy Peddler asked, holding the doll just out of reach.
“I have money,” the girl said, confusion behind her eyes.
He looked at her with his own transactional eyes until he found what he was looking for.
“How about a dream?” the Toy Peddler asked, his skeletal finger touching the girl’s forehead.
“A dream? What good is that?”
“Then, you won’t miss it. Just one. A dream for a doll. What do you say?”
She smiled, but there was now a question behind her eyes. “What dream did you take?” she asked.
“Ah, now that would be cheating,” the Toy Peddler said and thrust his dream-filled hand into the pouch at his side. “Toys for sale or trade! Come to me, children!” his cry rang out through the haze and the gloom.
“Excuse me, sir,” the little boy said. “Do you have what I want?” He held up his favorite toy, a well-used model firetruck, for the Toy Peddler to inspect.
The Toy Peddler looked the boy over and nodded. He reached into the pouch at his side and held out a bony finger to the boy’s forehead; then he spoke a secret word.
“It’s warm,” the boy said, rubbing his temple, a smile slowly growing. The Toy Peddler took the truck and flung it into his pack. The boy shut his eyes, and his smile became nearly too big to be contained. The Toy Peddler walked on into the night.
“I got a doll,” the young girl said, her head held high.
The boy continued to smile and did not care to look at the toy.
“Toys for sale or trade! Come to me, children!” The Toy Peddler disappeared into the mists of the dreary night, looking for some new place to sell his wares.
Chapter 1
Matt sat cross-legged atop the picnic table, facing his best friend, John. The park in the center of town was always deserted at this time of day, after three o’clock but before four thirty. They came every day, when the forces in their lives allowed, and shared their stories.
“Well?” Matt asked, his eyes wide with expectation.
“Is he evil?” John was sitting cross-legged, like Matt, his arms folded like his legs, his mouth shifted to the left and pursed, and his brow furrowed in thought.
“No, well, not really, no.” Matt looked down at his laptop and the words he had written there. “He’s more like justice, y’know?”
John, his mouth still screwed left, his brow still furrowed, began to nod slowly, hesitantly.
Matt continued, “Like, he takes from people who don’t appreciate what they have.”
“He took a dream from a little girl.”
“Right!” Matt was too excited. He wanted John to like this new story. “Because she didn’t appreciate having the luxury of any dream she wanted.”
“And the little boy was poor…”
“So, he doesn’t have that luxury. The Toy Peddler tries to correct that.”
“He’s equity, parity,” John said, his face taking on a calm, thoughtful look that Matt knew meant he understood. “He’s like the Robin Hood trope, taking from the rich to give to the poor, but with dreams.”
“Exactly!” Matt clapped his hands together too loudly, which made John laugh out loud. “You said we needed something different. The Growl in the Night, the Chittering Underground, even the Slashing Hero, you said were too stereotypical.”
“Yeah, so the Toy Peddler is like Santa Claus but—”
“With a fresh new take.”
“Is that why you set the story in a village right out of Grimms’ fairy tales?”
“Yeah, it’s that juxsty, uh…”
“Juxtaposition.”
“Right, juxtaposition of the traditional but in a fresh, new way.”
John nodded more animatedly, his mouth smiling, his brow raised pleasantly. “I like it,” he pronounced.
Matt sighed, a broad, satisfied smile filling his face. “What about you?” Matt put his laptop back into his backpack. “You got anything new?”
John shook his head. “I’ve got some ideas, but I haven’t written any down yet. I like this direction. Old fairy tales with new spins. This could work.” He glanced down at his phone, checking the time. “But I got this thing, a family thing, I have to go to.”
“Okay.” Matt couldn’t hide his disappointment. It was Friday. Usually, on Fridays, they could work for hours, uninterrupted, until the people going out for the evening started showing up.
“I should go,” John said as he slid off the table top and plopped onto the ground. He dusted off the back of his black jeans, fiddled a bit with his black t-shirt, and ran his fingers through his dyed black hair. Matt remembered when John had first begun to wear nothing but black, about the time they had both turned fourteen. It had been a type of rebellion, Matt supposed, especially when he had first dyed his hair, but now, a year and a half later, it had become his personal style. It meant something to him—that was obvious—and Matt accepted that implicitly.
Matt watched John shift from foot to foot, his black sneakers drumming up miniature dust clouds. “Is it still bad?”
John nodded. “I’ll just go the long way ‘round,” he said, rubbing his shoulder, the one where the bruise was just visible above the neckline of his shirt.
“We could go to the police.”
“And say what?” John was shaking his head and rubbing his sore shoulder.
“It’s assault. This ain’t the 1950s. Nobody has to put up with bullies anymore.”
John continued to shake his head. “Dad said to man up.” John’s voice was colorless as he reminded Matt of the one time he had tried to get help before, and pointing out, in a subtly figurative way, that the police were men very much like his father.
“You want me to walk with you?” Matt offered, his back just a bit straighter than usual, hoping the added posture made up for the complete lack of musculature.
John smiled, his lips turned inward, trying to be respectful. “It’s a nice thought, but no reason you should get beat up too. I’ll take the long way ‘round.”
“Okay, but be careful.”
The two shook hands, awkwardly. They never quite knew how to say goodbye. They used to pat each other’s arms in a decidedly rhythmless staccato, but that had gotten old quickly. John had offered a fist bump once, only once. It had felt so inauthentic that they both had grimaced. So, they graduated to handshakes, which was better, marginally, than the waving to each other from less than two feet away.
Matt took his time rearranging his backpack. The laptop had mashed the handouts from school, but he didn’t care much about that. There was a nagging, a thought, dark and sinister, forming in his head. He started to walk toward his house, the exact opposite direction from John, but felt the need to turn. He watched John walk directly down Main Street.
“What’s he doing?” Matt asked no one. The long way around would have been to cross over two streets, go through the pharmacy, pretending to shop but buying nothing and exiting through the back door, then around the hotel by the river. Main Street would take him directly toward the group of seniors who always hung out in front of the convenience store on main, the very group that always bullied him.
Matt stood still, watching his friend walk toward danger. He was too far away to call to. Maybe he had forgotten what awaited on Main? That didn’t seem likely. Maybe he was going t
o try to face them, to fight them, to… Matt sighed as John disappeared around the corner and was firmly on Main Street.
“Damn it, John!” Matt exclaimed and walked briskly, following John’s trail, trying not to run; running would mean there was absolutely something bad about to happen. He had no reason to expect the worst. Maybe the seniors would just call him names, those truly creative names that no bully ever had thought of. He laughed at his own sarcasm and thought about creating a character who was a bully and just as original as every other bully, a walking stereotype, a caricature of humanity, a twisted, desiccated view of humanity.
He smiled at his use of language. John had taught him the definition of “desiccated” in reference to a character he had created with vampiric qualities. John would be proud of the relative elevation of the verbiage of his thought process right now. But that was not the pressing issue at the moment.
Matt walked faster, which became a half-walk, half-jog, which made his backpack jump and jar against his back. He could feel the hard case of his laptop slapping the bone at the top of his shoulder, and then he thought about how much worse a fist would feel. He began to jog.
It took a moment for him to register the sight in front of him. The group of seniors, that ever-present mob of delinquents, had pulled John just inside the alley between the convenience store and the bank. He could just see John’s black hair between the dirt-colored heads of the bullies. Then he saw something hard, wooden, in the hands of the main bully, a truly disgusting example of humanity whom everyone called Little Bill because he was named after his father.
Matt stopped walking, the sight so jarring that it literally stopped him. It wasn’t until he recognized the wooden thing as a baseball bat that he started walking again. He took a step as he watched Little Bill hold the bat, one hand on the handle, the other on the barrel, and press it against John’s nose. There was laughter coming from the others, sick, demented, disgusting laughter. Matt took another step.
Little Bill pulled the bat close to his own face; then he thrust it forward, forcefully. Matt gasped at the sound it made as it connected with his friend’s forehead. It was a thud, which was expected, but underneath the thud was a sickening, wet sound, like a large stone dropped onto a rain-soaked lawn. Matt watched John’s head fling back and connect to the brick wall behind him. Another thud, more like a smack, shot out of the alley.