Arponis: Book 5

last.

You’ll find the keyhole, and the door

The key, a loyal beast upon the floor,

And everything impossible will happen.

– 1 –

The strange happenings of that day occurred without warning.

Having just finished second grade, Alex Fe could not yet know that these events would define his life for many years ahead.

That morning, when he went outside, everything was bathed in the June sun. The boy stood for a while, squinting happily at the blue sky and feeling his insides tighten in anticipation of unearthing things new and undiscovered. Then, hitching up his shorts, he jumped off the porch and bolted through the gate, his sandals soaking in the morning dew.

The neighbourhood consisted of one-story buildings, flanked by bushes and wreathed in flower arrangements. Alex stopped near the gate to watch a tractor heading toward a building with the flag on it.

It was time for takeoff. He turned the key in the ignition. The motor warmed. Checking the functionality of his imaginary rudders and wing flaps, the boy ran ahead.

The little town seemed deserted, except for some cranky dog that let out a mournful howl and threw itself against the fence. The buildings streamed past in a fluid mosaic as the imaginary plane broke the sound barrier. Through the chirping of the crickets Alex could hear the humming of his finely tuned engine. Immersed in his flight, he became aware of some danger only after the sobering sound of a harsh whistle.

Local boys appeared on the street and advanced on him shoulder to shoulder. Alex tried to avoid a collision, having moved closer to the curb, but the boys mirrored his move. Observing this, Alex sighed, anticipating a tussle and trying to look as nonchalant about it as possible.

There were three of them. In the middle was a stout, short-haired rectangle wearing a once-white shirt and sweatpants, stretched at the knees. The second was a towering lug with a heavy bottom lip, nibbling at the remains of a green apple. And the last was as skinny and frazzled looking as Alex himself, but with teal-green eyes instead of blue. The skinny boy was carrying a model airplane with a band motor and folding propeller. Alex knew all about those kinds of things. He loved mechanical models but had never actually built one.

The distance between him and his adversaries was shrinking rapidly. The boulder with the short hair, about two years Alex’s senior, sized him up with beady eyes.

You the one who came in from the city yesterday?

Yeah, so? asked Alex.

Sock him, Mikey. Teach him a thing or two about zooming around our village like that, said fat-lip, chewing loudly.

The one called Mikey was in no hurry. He examined Alex, and then looked past him, focusing on something in the distance.

It was a German shepherd—black, evil looking, and fast. Baring a set of gleaming fangs and trailing drool, the shepherd accelerated toward Alex. When it was a few meters away, Mikey stepped forward and gently called, Tarzan, here boy!

The dog skidded to a stop and bounded around its owner, trying to lick his face.

This is my dog, said Mikey.

Alex was rooted to the ground, knuckles growing white from gripping a stick he’d managed to pick up. With eyes wide open, he hadn’t yet acknowledged that the danger had passed. Alex was not afraid of dogs, but the sudden appearance of unfamiliar animals always scared him at first.

What’re you doing with that? Drop the stick, commanded Mikey. Drop it, I said.

Alex was disarmed.

All right, my fault, admitted Mikey. I should’ve stopped him sooner. Come on, let’s go launch the plane!

The lug with the lip smiled at Alex.

You’re a brave guy, trying to take Tarzan on with a stick. Scares me, too, sometimes, you know. Pops right out of a corner, sends my heart into my stomach. You should put a mouth guard on him, or something, Mikey.

Why don’t you put a mouth guard on yourself, Gene? said Mikey, harshly. Maybe you’ll eat less, huh? Take a few pounds off that tub of yours?

Gene became visibly upset but didn’t make any coherent reply.

The kid with the plane spoke for the first time since Alex had seen him. Good thinking, bringing your dog, Mikey. There’ll finally be someone to chase the plane. Last time we spent more time crawling around the bushes looking for it than flying it.

Why do you think I brought him? said Mikey. You know anything about planes?

Alex realized that the question had been directed at him.

Oh, yeah, definitely, he said. I’ve read tons of books about them. X-Planes, MIGs, Skunk Works, you know—Space Shuttles—um, helicopters—

I’m asking you about models, not actual planes. Have you built models?

No, Alex admitted with apparent disappointment. But I know how.

There’s a difference between knowing how and actually doing it, observed the nameless kid with the plane.

Right, Kyle, Gene put in. Doesn’t take much to read a book. I can read, too, you know. But all it takes is watching Kyle gluing a wing on to see how hard it is. I know my fingers could never manage that kind of thing.

All they ever manage is picking your nose, interjected Mikey.

Jerk, muttered Gene, and sulked again.

They were standing at a road that cut through the middle of a cornfield. Tarzan was in orbit around them, diving in among the corn and then emerging again, shooting glances of devotion at Mikey.

Gene, stop with the moping already, Mikey said. Why don’t you tell us where we’ll be launching from today? You’re our guy when it comes to that.

Gene remained silent for a time, but eventually grumbled, It’s boring doing it off the hill again. It’s not even a hill, more like a bump. Why don’t we try from the old windmill?

Done, agreed Mikey. Unless the groundskeeper sees us and kicks our ass.

He won’t, said Kyle. I saw him going to the city this morning.

From the old windmill, then, said Mikey. He looked back at Alex. You know how to wind up the band?

That I can do! This one time at home I built a band motor with pieces of our fan. Man, did it ever spin!

Well we’ve got a real propeller here, warned Mikey. Be careful! You twist it up too much, it might crack.

Don’t worry! said Alex, his excitement mounting. He couldn’t believe how well this encounter was going. I’ll be careful.

They made their way over the mound of weeds, which grew so high that Kyle walked with the plane lifted above his head. Following the weeds was a long trek to the forest line, which they crossed in silence. Alex was immersed in the smell of the grass, and the feeling of peace it gave him. As they emerged from a group of young birch trees, they finally saw the stout old windmill.

After everyone had made a few attempts, it became clear that the plane rode the air currents longest when launched by Alex, so the boys left this business to him. The plane arced boisterously with every updraft, maintaining its altitude, reluctant to part with the element it had been created for. Alex was dauntless. He mounted the creaking attic ladder time and time again to reexperience the joy of flight. The boys laughed excitedly at each new arc the plane made and Alex laughed loudest.

When the sun was at its zenith, the boys remembered lunchtime and became hungry. Gene and Kyle were expected home for lunch, so they left, promising to return in an hour. Mikey also started after them. But Alex didn’t want to part with this hypnotic place, and the boring trip back to the village seemed like a waste of time. The prospect of being left on his own, however, made him feel lonely.

Mikey looked back at him and asked, What was your name again?

Alex.

Aren’t you coming?

Not yet. I don’t want to leave. I just got here.

Mikey thought for a moment.

I don’t want to leave, either. All right. Let’s make a fire, and eat here instead. I’ve got a bag of marshmallows in my pocket.

Yeah, sure! agreed Alex. When the fire was nicely going, he asked, Are we going to launch the plane tomorrow, too?

We are. Sit.

Alex lowered himself onto a sun-warmed log, squirmed awkwardly on its rough surface to get comfortable, and settled, looking dreamily into the flame. He was digesting his impressions of the day, crafting something out of his experiences.

I made up a story, he blurted out, smiling self-consciously, unable to contain himself, about our plane.

A story?

Yeah.

What, like that?

Yup, confirmed Alex happily.

Huh. Cool.

Mikey stabbed a stick through a marshmallow and lowered it over the fire.

So tell it, then. What’d you think up?

Alex said hesitantly, Well I can’t tell it, just like that. I mean—it’s a story in my head. I still need to write it out and stuff. I’ll write it and give it to you, okay?

Okay. Well, what’s it about, though?

Alex vaulted to his feet and lifted the fragile shape of the plane from behind the log.

Watch, he said. Pretend that our plane is alive!

Mikey glanced at the plane as he turned the marshmallow over to brown its other side. A whole hive of embers burst from the fire. Alex didn’t have time to pull his arm away before the dry paper forming the tight wings of the plane burst into flames. The boy let out a yell and shook the plane in an effort to quell the flame, refusing to let it go. But the pain of his hands overpowered him.

In deep horror, Alex stared at the blackened remains of his dream that had hovered in the sky minutes ago.

Why—why did you throw it in the fire? yelled Mikey at him, getting to his feet. Why did you burn it? Never made a single model, but you sure are good at wrecking them! Made up a story! Get out of here, writer! Maybe your mommy wants to hear a story!

Alex’s eyes darkened at these accusations. He glared at the furious Mikey and opened his mouth to say something but his lips quivered and tears began to stream from his eyes.

Mikey fell silent. He wanted to take Alex by the shoulder and realized that it was too late. Alex was suddenly hardened somehow, unmoving. His skinny shoulders stuck out menacingly from under his thin sleeves. Then he turned and walked away.

Smothering tears across his face, he walked forward and saw nothing. His name was called but he didn’t hear anything. Usually Alex hid inside his fantasies, inside imaginary worlds. Mentally he always went to these places when this world became uninviting. But today, he just went where his feet took him.

He wanted to be at a place separated from everyone by an impenetrable wall. He wanted to see the ocean. The giant, borderless, mighty, and gentle ocean. He knew that there he could get rid of the image of the plane burning in his hands. There he could forget the words that Mikey had screamed. He wanted to see the ocean now. And the dunes, running down to the waterline. And a cavalcade of horses, crossing a bridge from a castle on a cliff top. To hear the melodic voice of a royal troubadour. And to see the flags above the castle, waving long in the fresh breeze. He wanted all of this so much that he became dizzy. Unable to fight it, Alex fell, convulsing with bitter sobs.

He didn’t notice that the space around him shook a bit. He only felt that the wind—the dry, hot wind of the village fields—had become soft and salty. It billowed the shirt on his back and carried away the pain of his hands, gust by gust. When all had passed, he opened his eyes.

Alex was standing on a sandy mound and before him, stretching out beyond the horizon, was a sparkling blue ocean.

He heard a wave crash on the far-off cliffs, and saw a castle there on top of them. And heard the cry of seagulls. And the long brassy note of a horn, melting in the transparent air. With a face that wasn’t yet dry, he greedily took in the new world cast around him, and laughed. Then he sprinted to the shore, waving his arms and kicking with his foot, to dislodge the sand that had already gotten into his sandals.

He walked along the crest of the bay, studying the shoreline. The sand lay undisturbed and under the green, transparent waters he could make out the usual sea busyness expected in such a place. Fish sped by left and right, as though trying not to be late for something. Crabs scuttled back and forth, losing direction and finding it again. Alex walked, whistling, occasionally picking up little trinkets gifted to him by the ocean. Smoothly polished, multicoloured pieces of rock, elaborately sculpted shells, and round white pebbles.

The shore curved, fading into the sea in a sandy arc. Alex turned away from it, heading instead toward the castle. There, at the base of the cliff, the sand dissipated to a thin line, beyond which sprawled a pine forest.

Suddenly, something large emerged from beyond the foliage. Alex felt a chill crawl down his spine. Dumbfounded, he watched the creature descending toward him, mighty wings parted and talons poised. It was the largest eagle Alex had ever seen.

His heart began to thud from inside when the horrible talons loosened. Something detached itself from them and plummeted.

The eagle soared upward into the midday sky and flew into the distance. Getting his breath back, Alex looked around for the object the bird had dropped and found it half buried in a dune.

It was a shell. Alex kneeled down, scooped away the surrounding sand and drew in a breath. It was a regular small, soft, blue shell in every way, except that in its centre the colours were almost too brilliant to look at. It seemed to glow from within like there was a powerful flashlight inside.

Alex squeezed the shell tightly in his hands. It was pulsing. It felt as though a real tide, the kind you saw during a full moon, was trying to tell him something. With the shell clenched in his palm, the boy stepped toward the castle again.

A thick silence enveloped him, as though his own thoughts were being stifled. His breath became inaudible. Another step, and he found himself waist deep in green grass, the old windmill before him, and smoke from the smouldering fire still in sight.

****

Late in the evening a freshly washed Alex lay in the dark, not able to fall asleep. He was smiling, remembering the day. In his eyes, the sea still shimmered and the sand crumbled under his feet. Squirming with sunburned shoulders under a new bedsheet, he also remembered the scolding he’d gotten from his grandmother for gallivanting around all day, lord-knows-where.

He listened to the occasional whine of neighbourhood dogs and stared through the window at the stars. With every minute of the settling night, they seemed to grow larger. The smell of freshly cut grass wafted up through the window. And on Alex’s bedside table, void of its former glow, lay the shell. It was as dim as it became the moment he had found himself back by the old windmill.

– 2 –

Six years later, during English literature class, a teacher read aloud, I do not think Harry Potter could’ve become a wizard.

The class boomed with laughter.

Quiet! The teacher placed the book on the table and scanned the room with her eyes. Alexander, please tell us, she said, addressing a blond, sullen-looking boy in the second row. Why exactly did you choose Harry Potter for your book report assignment?

Well you told us yourself that we should write about a book we’d enjoyed, said the boy. So I picked Harry Potter.

In reality, Alex hadn’t read the book. His friends had urged him to start it last year, but he quit early on. Reading those thick tomes, with a fifth and even more gargantuan one just released, looked like a dumb idea. It didn’t seem interesting. And in the summer there was never time to read. Alex had spent two months in the village with grandma, helping her around the house and spending time with his village friends, and the entire last month had been occupied by the move to a new apartment with his mom. So when the teacher had handed out this assignment, it hadn’t taken Alex long to see the Harry Potter films instead. He had heard the movie was better than the novel. And of course, it was based on the book, so it was perfect for his essay.

All right, said the teacher. But why did you decide to base your paper on this particular topic? Why didn’t you explain the characters, the themes? The plot, at least?

He wants to be original, Ms. Evans! exclaimed a plump girl from the front row.

Trying to show off! yelled someone else.

Wait, kids! The teacher raised a hand, silencing her class. Fe, she said, come up here.

Alex got up and approached the blackboard. The teacher sat down at her desk.

So, she began. "You titled your essay ‘Harry Potter. The Magic World, and the Real World,’ wherein you attempt to prove that in the real world Harry Potter would not have been able to become what he became. It seems you’ve forgotten that the ‘Real World’ in the book is also a fictional one. So I’d like you to clarify for us which world you in fact meant."

Any, answered Alex flatly.

Meaning? probed the teacher.

The real world in the book, or the real, real one. There’s no difference.

Expand on that idea, please, requested the teacher.

Alex thought for a moment. Everyone was waiting for his response.

If Harry Potter were to come in here— he began.

The door quietly opened, revealing a black-haired boy with a pointed, peeling nose.

Can I come in? he asked.

The kids began to squirm. Someone laughed.

And you are? asked the teacher.

New, answered the boy, looking over the class with well spaced, glinting eyes.

Ms. Evans looked at the attendance list. Are you Andrew Hawkins?

Right.

And why are you so late?

I was in the office. Registering, he said.

Oh? And where were you before that? asked the teacher. It’s been a week since the school year started.

We moved here yesterday. I got a bit lost trying to find this place.

Hm, said Ms. Evans, gesturing to a fidgeting Alex. He’s also new. Also just moved. But he didn’t have any trouble finding the school, as far as I know. She sighed. Come in. Find a free desk. And so, Fe, she said, turning back to Alex. You had begun explaining yourself to the class. Please continue.

In the book, Rowling sends her character to a special school, started Alex. A school of magic. So he—he sort of—changes worlds. Before, he lives in one, and then he starts living in another. So I just thought about what would have happened to him, if he had stayed in the normal one.

Hearing the name of the author, the new kid looked at Alex with interest.

And? encouraged the teacher.

And decided that he wouldn’t have accomplished anything, Alex replied. Certainly wouldn’t have become a wizard.

Why, though? wondered Ms. Evans. The class swelled with the noise.

Because he was— Alex lost his footing for a moment. He wanted to say a genius but Alex didn’t believe that that genius stemmed into the other reality of the novel. At the same time Alex himself knew how it was to be unlike anyone else if they found out. For a long time he’d strongly believed that a better world would eventually pop out at him, from around a corner, as it had once before. Alex had tried explaining this, but was either laughed at or picked on. Even his mother didn’t understand anything. Fantasies! she would say. So he had stopped dreaming out loud and learned to bite his tongue. Only in a dark corner of his imagination did he still harbour that small hope, a dim memory of that one incredible day.

Because Harry seemed strange to everyone, and nobody likes people like that, said Alex. I think had he not gone to Hogwarts, his relatives, friends, and everyone else around would have turned him into exactly what they were.

Into what? asked the teacher.

Alex didn’t have time to answer, before the new student’s arm shot into the air.

What is it, Hawkins? asked Ms. Evans. You disagree?

I do, he said. I think there’s a contradiction in terms here. In the magical world of books anything can happen. But you can’t discuss anyone from that world, as a presence in ours, simply because they are mutually exclusive. You can’t have more realities than one.

Silence hung in the classroom.

Alexander, do you agree with that? asked Ms. Evans.

No, answered Alex, and felt his ears go red.

The class livened again with noise.

Alex continued, "I don’t agree. There are other—there have to