Chapter 1

“Hank! You can either mow the grass today, with the lawnmower or do it tomorrow with a pair of hand shears. Your choice, son!”

“Okay, Dad, I get it!” I called back. Jesus! I hate mowing the damn lawn. Why did he have to get a house on two acres? Thankfully, only half of it had actual grass and the other half was wooded. It would take me all day just to mow and trim half and thank goodness it was spring because, in the fall, he would make me rake pine needles first!

I got off my bed, sticking an empty gum wrapper in my book as a place keeper, and put on my shoes. I was wearing a pair of ratty, but comfortable shorts and a muscle shirt. It was the standard uniform for Georgia summers. Anything else and you were looking at heat stroke!

I opened the garage, staring as I usually did at the piles of boxes, stacks of newspapers, jumbles of junk that my dad refused to part with. He was a pack rat, and the only reason the house wasn’t packed to the gills too, is that mom put her foot down. He could have the garage for his stuff, but she would trash anything she found in the house.

Somehow the old mower had migrated back a few rows and it took me a half hour before I could uncover it. I finally did get it out though, and re-stacked the boxes leaving enough space for the mower again. There was a can of gasoline just to the left of the door and I thought, again, of how stupid it was to store gasoline next to so many flammable things. Dad’s garage, Dad’s rules though.

The mower, as always, was cranky as hell, but I had become almost an expert on mowers over the last two years. I pulled the plug and cleaned it, did the same with the air filter and primed the carb, but it still took about a dozen pulls to get the bastard to start. With a cloud of white greasy smoke, it finally fired up and I could get to work.

I had predicted it, even though I had worked out the most efficient route the summer before. With a break for lunch, it was almost three by the time the whole yard had been cut. Taking a break for a drink, I got the out the manual edger, really just a rubber wheel with a sharp-toothed gear on one side, and edged along the sidewalks, the house, the patio and around the well pump cover in the back yard.

Last, but not least, and most likely to get me yelled at if I forgot, was taking a broom and cleaning off every inch of exposed concrete around the house. By the time I was done, there was only about twenty minutes or so until dinner and there was no way mom would let me eat at the table until I showered.

I was in a bit of a hurry as I stuffed the mower back in place, turning to grab the broom and the edger, when one of the boxes, the one on the top of the pile, started to teeter.

I dove for it, hoping to catch it in time but was too slow. The box hit me square in the nose, knocking me on my ass and spilling its contents across the driveway.

BOOKS!

I was a reader. If I was allowed, I would read day and night, never leaving my room except to use the bathroom and eat. I loved almost any kind of fiction, but Science Fiction was my favorite. From the ‘Dragonriders of Pern‘ to the ‘Martian Chronicles‘, I read everything I could get my hands on.

For the most part, the books that fell out of this box looked to be old textbooks. I did find a couple that might be interesting though. One was titled ‘On Dragons: A Tactical Treatise’ by someone named Sir Alwyn Lombard. It looked like it would be good for a laugh. I had been dipping my toe more into the fantasy genre these days, getting a taste for dragons and such after reading Anne McCaffrey’s books.

The second book was “A Magical Primer for new students of the Arcane” by Felicia Alder. Never heard of her, but I stacked that with the other and stuffed the textbooks back into the box. Heaving the box back to the top of the stack again, I pulled off my sweaty shirt and used it to conceal the books I had pilfered.

If my dad saw them, he would be all over me. His junk was his junk even if he didn’t even know it was there. He might never open that box again, but it was still his junk. Don’t get me wrong, I love my Dad, but he is a bit of a flake sometimes.

“Man, I stink!” I called out as I entered the house, grinning when my sister, who had been heading my way, veered off and ducked into the pantry. I was sure that would work, even with my dad. I made it to my room, stuffed the books on my bookshelf where they would be hidden in plain sight with the others, then took clean clothes into the bathroom for my shower.

After dinner, I went back to the book I had been reading earlier. It was Robert Heinlein’s ‘Stranger in a Strange Land’ and I was almost done with it. I spent the rest of the evening in my room, lost in the world of Valentine Michael Smith, trying to grok what the author was really trying to say. With Heinlein, that was not always a given!

The following day was Sunday, and like every Sunday, we went to church. I still, to this day, do not understand why they made us go. We would sit and listen to the sermon, then everyone would mill around for an hour afterwards. The women would make catty remarks about other women, the men would talk sports or cars or hunting, and then we would come home. The entire ride back to the house was the same. Mom would talk about the women she had been talking to, dad would complain about the sermon.

I mean, how silly was all of that? When I once had the temerity to suggest we just not go to church at all, I got an hour-long lecture on how important it was to have a strong moral code. How that had anything to do with what we did every Sunday, I still have no idea.

I had finished ‘Stranger in a Strange Land‘ the previous night but was still digesting it. In each of his books, Heinlein tended to have a political thread, often intermixed with a social one, and it had become a bit of a hobby of mine to try and figure out what he was really saying. It got really interesting when you considered that most of his adult books were from a tumultuous time in the 60s, and while we had the benefit of hindsight, he had been actually living it.

While I digested that book, I reached for ‘On Dragons‘. It was an odd book, written in stilted English with some really weird spellings, in a lot of ways even worse than Shakespeare. It appeared that the author had written exactly what it looked like. It was a book about dragons, their mating habits, their feeding habits, their strengths and weaknesses. It described battle after battle along with a discussion of what had gone right and what had gone wrong with each.

I leafed through it, trying to see if there was an actual story there, but it was a damned textbook on killing dragons. I set it back on the shelf and sat there for a while, trying to figure out why someone would go to all of that trouble to create the book in the first place. I supposed it was possible that the author was a crackpot who thought it needed to be written, but I was leaning towards that reenactment group, the SCA or Society for Creative Anachronisms.

I had read an article about the SCA in the back of ‘Starlog‘, a science fiction and fantasy magazine that the school had a subscription to. You had to read them in the school’s library and couldn’t check them out, but I liked the library enough to spend most of my lunch hours there anyway.

I picked up the second book and it was much the same. It too, was a textbook, but it fascinated me right from the start. It started by talking about how power was all around us in every living thing, and especially in the Earth itself. It talked about lines of power called Ley lines, that flowed through the world. Without even knowing about them, people tended to congregate where the ley lines met.

Cities were built where people congregated, and the very life force of the inhabitants actually fed the ley lines, making them stronger. The book advised fledgling magic users to find a small town to begin with, one without a spell caster in residence, and learn to use the power there.

As you grew in strength and knowledge, you could move to larger towns and eventually cities. The problem was that larger towns and cities almost always had a resident magic user, and these adepts tended to be territorial. Only the fact that magic users were such a rare breed kept them from constantly battling one another over territory.

The flip side to having this power was that you became the target of creatures that hated humans having magic. Liches and demons, wights and the fey folk had a long history of battling magic users if they could catch them early enough, though the author was honest enough to lay the blame where it belonged, on unscrupulous humans who abused the power to the detriment of the other races.

There was an Over Council of Magi, the oldest and most powerful Mages in the world, who would come down like a proverbial ton of bricks on anyone who abused their power, and they had put a stop to these abuses centuries before. The Council of Magi was made up of the leaders of the regional councils who were chosen in turn by the conclave of Mages in their region.

Still, even with the strict rules of non-interference with the fey folk, the fey had long and pain-filled memories of generations of abuse they had suffered at the hands of human Mages.

I was so fascinated by the book that I completely missed lunch and only my mother, coming to my room to see if I wasn’t feeling well, could have pried me away for supper.

Over the next week, I read every night. Looking back, I can’t understand how I didn’t notice that I never got closer to the end of the book, but at the time, it just seemed natural.

First came the simple spells. Light and fire, purifying water and simple wards to keep sickness away. I even tried a couple, just for fun, but of course, nothing happened. It didn’t dampen my enthusiasm though, and I kept reading. The second level spells were more useful. Shields and summoning, enchanting everyday objects to make them better and methods for storing power if you were not going to be near a source.

It was a couple of days later, the day before my fifteenth birthday, that I heard my dad arguing with someone outside. My room was the closest to the garage and we didn’t have air conditioning. My window stayed open, and I had two fans in my room to circulate the hot and humid Georgia air.

Curious, I set my book down and looked out through the screen. I saw my father standing in the driveway with his fists on his hips, his face red as he exchanged shouts with a man in a suit.

“That is all that I have, and I can’t sell you something I don’t have, now can I?” Dad said sarcastically.

“It was in the lot of books you bought at the auction, and I will have it, do you understand me?” the other man yelled back, pointing his finger in my dad’s face.

“Get. Off. My. Property.” Dad snarled, brushing away the offending digit.

“I will be back and you will not like it at all; this I swear!” the man screamed, stomping back up the drive and climbing into the back of a big black car. The man who held the door, dressed as you would expect for a fancy Chauffer, circled around the front of the car and, without a word, got in the driver’s seat and drove away.

Dad stood there, watching him go, a scowl on his face.

This was the most exciting thing to happen at our house in months, so I headed towards the kitchen to be near the front door where my father would most likely enter the house. I got myself a glass and was pouring iced tea, slowly, when my father finally came in.

“Dad, did I hear shouting out there?” I asked innocently.

“Yeah, some idiot insists that there was a small wood jewelry box in a lot I bought at an auction last month, but he’s wrong! The box I bought had only some books.” Dad said, shaking his head. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and held it out so I could fill it with tea.

“Is there something special about the box, like a family heirloom or something?”

He just shrugged. “He didn’t say. He said it was about four inches square with some funny symbols inlaid into the top. I guess he really wanted it because the guy actually threatened me! I can’t sell what I don’t have, now can I? I even showed him the damn box and the list from the auction house.”

I just shook my head, agreeing with him. I was wondering if it was the box I had spilled and where I found the two weird textbooks. It was possible, and since it had spilled over the driveway, maybe the box had really been there and was still out there in some crevice in the garage.

I was determined to find out, but I couldn’t do it with mom or dad around, they would want to know why I was going into the garage, a place I normally avoided like the plague.

I had an idea, but it would require some planning. It felt a little silly, very Scooby Doo, but at the same time, there was a touch of Mission Impossible too! I had this odd, unshakable feeling it was important I be careful with this, secretive even.

Back in my room, I searched for and found my old canteen. It was an aluminum Army canteen I had picked up at a yard sale for a dime, and I used it last summer when I was out exploring in the woods. I carefully hid it, sticking it in the laundry room behind the washing machine. I laid it on its side, so maybe it would look like it was on the washer and fell off.

The next step was to wait until the weekend and then pretend to look for it.

Friday came and with it, my fifteenth birthday. Despite my complaint that going to school on my birthday was almost as bad as slavery, I had to go anyway. I could deal with it, despite my complaining, as there were only two weeks left until summer.

I was sure I would get a small cake and some ice cream that evening, but there wouldn’t be a party or anything. Birthdays were not huge things in my family, and I honestly didn’t have any real friends.

There were a couple of kids at school I talked with and was friendly with, but mostly I was a bit of a loner. I was thin, short, and a geek, so I wasn’t part of any of the cool cliques.

My sister was two years older than me and a very popular girl. She was on just about every committee she could join, from the yearbook to the prom, and was just one of those people that other people liked. My mother had often remarked that I could learn a thing or two from her, and she might have been right, if I actually cared about the things she cared about.

My dad, on the other hand, for the longest time wanted me to be a jock. He insisted that I had an arm like a rocket when we played catch, but I was sure that was just him bullshitting, trying to hype me up. He constantly tried to get me to go out for baseball or football, but the idea of deliberately running around in the heat and humidity just didn’t appeal to me.

That evening, I got some new clothes, a gift certificate for my favorite bookstore in town, a small television for my room, and some cash from my grandparents. Not a bad haul! I made it a point to think out loud, where my parents could hear me, that I might have to buy a new canteen since I couldn’t find mine.

We were not poor, by any means. Dad made good money as an architect and mom was a romance novelist. No, I won’t tell you her pen name because, trust me, you would know her. We never had to worry about buying secondhand clothes or about paying bills. Still, dad’s family had been pretty poor when he was growing up, and he was tight with a dollar.

“Wait, what happened to your canteen? Don’t you think finding it would be smarter than wasting money on another one? You know as soon as you do, your old one will turn up and you will have two.” Dad said, giving me that look that said I was an idiot.

“I have torn my room apart. Last time I used it was when I cut the grass, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what I did with it. I wanted it for this weekend, so I could take it when I ride down to the creek.” I told him, sounding defeated.

Dad listed off a half dozen places, and I assured him that I had checked them all, then he added the one place I had been hoping for. “What about the garage? Did you set it down when you were putting the tools away?”

I popped my eyes open wide, like this was the most surprising and brilliant thing he ever said. “Geez, I never thought about that. I hate going out there, so I guess I didn’t even consider it. I’ll go look!” I told him, hopping up.

“It’s getting dark, you can check in the morning.” Mom objected, setting a plate with cake and ice cream in front of me. That distracted dad too, since he had a sweet tooth almost as big as mine.

The next morning, unable to sleep, I was up at the crack of dawn and grabbed my canteen and snuck out the back door. In moments, I was easing the garage door open. My dad, his hoarding aside, was a handy guy, and he had a maintenance schedule for the house. Once a month, either he or I was out with an oilcan, oiling every single hinge on every single door in the house. What that meant Saturday morning was that as long as I was careful, the garage door was almost silent.

I began by pulling the lawnmower and the tools I had used out, then a gas can. Our house faced east, so the morning sun was my helper, shining brightly into the garage and banishing the shadows. With the sun lighting the way, it was just a matter of minutes before I found what I thought I was looking for or, more accurately, something definitely out of place.

It was about four inches square, but less than an inch thick, not much thicker than a wallet or a paperback. It was made of wood and seemed to be a solid block with no lines or edges showing that it would open somehow. No hinges or clasps either. The top was inlaid with a design, a starburst pattern with a whole bunch of points, and each point ended in a symbol of some kind. The bottom was bare and scuffed, as though this had sat on a desk and been pushed around a lot in its earlier life.

Now, I am not an avaricious sort nor greedy by nature, but the feel of that box in my hand, the mystery it seemed to hold, grabbed me by the ears and wouldn’t let go. I know this sounds odd, but it felt ... right, like it belonged in my hand, if that makes any sense at all, and I had to know more about it!

I stuffed it down the front of my shorts, using the tails of the muscle shirt to hide it, then quickly stuffed the gear back into the garage.

Proudly holding the canteen in front of me, I closed the garage door and marched back into the house. Since no one else was up, I quickly hid the box under my mattress, then returned to the kitchen with the canteen. There, I rinsed it out, set it in the dish drainer to dry, and then made myself a bowl of cereal.

Mom woke up first, shuffling in dressed in her favorite summer robe. She started a pot of coffee without a word and then stopped, staring at the dish drainer for almost thirty seconds as if she was trying to figure out what she was seeing. Then, with a shrug, she headed back to her bedroom.

Dad was next, and he saw the canteen right off, turning to give me his patented ‘I told you so.’ look.

“You were right, as usual.” I piped up, grinning at him. He had also been wrong, but I had learned never to mention when that occurred. Letting him figure it out for himself was more conducive to family harmony. Besides, I wasn’t about to reveal that I had the box that guy was looking for, at least not until I uncovered its secrets.

After breakfast, I dug out my canvas backpack, stuffed the wooden box way in the bottom and covered it with a towel. Then I put my magic textbook in the bag, followed by the canteen. A couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and an apple and I was ready to go.

There was a creek about a mile away from the house, and it meandered through woods heading eventually, or so I was told, to the Savannah River over in the city. There was a wide spot in the creek where a small waterfall, not more than six feet high, had carved out a pool. The water there was clean and cool, and not many folks seem to know about it.

When I was twelve, I discovered it when exploring the woods, and after dad checked it out and ruled it safe, it became my favorite Saturday getaway spot during the school year and my daily spot during the sweltering summer months. I’d pack a lunch and whatever book I was currently reading; go swimming, and then lie out on the broad, flat rocks at the top of the waterfall to dry off. There I would have lunch and read, just enjoying my time alone.

I had never seen evidence that anyone else ever went there, and so as long as my sister didn’t come with me, I would even go skinny dipping. I mean she used to come with me, but when puberty hit and she got boobs, she lost interest in hanging out with her little brother.

My bike was an old BMX, beaten up a bit and rusted in spots, but I had replaced the tires with knobby ones and I knew all the trails around my area. It wasn’t long until I was at my pool, taking a look around to see if anyone else had been there. No garbage, no footprints that I could see, so I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed.

My canteen went into a little shelf-like protrusion behind the waterfall to stay cool, and my lunch was placed in the shade along the bank. I laid out my towel on the rocks up top and sat down.

The wooden box, or block, or whatever it was, had a nice luster to it, like it had been lovingly rubbed until it shined. The symbols looked vaguely familiar. It was bugging me, but I couldn’t recall exactly where I had seen them. After studying it for a while, holding it up in the sunlight to closely inspect the edges for seams, I tried pushing, pulling, even rubbing like a genie lamp, but nothing changed.

Setting it aside, I pulled out my book. It would be another hour or so before I began to sweat and would need to cool off, even if the water would still make my testicles try to climb up inside me, so I figured I would read.

Once I had the book in my hand, it took me thirty seconds to remember where I had seen the symbols; they were in the book!