The Tales of True Mythology Discovery

~ Chapter One ~

The Attic

The sky churned a turmoil grey, but it dropped a quiet rain, one that asked a person to nap as it sang its hushed lullaby. The grass was turning bright green despite the approach of autumn, and the newly colored trees hung low over the street. Some were dropping the first of their leaves, and with the rain it all seemed very sad, as if the trees regretted letting them go. A great monolith of an oak stood near the corner of the house. It had neglected its leaves, dropping them early, and so stood sulking and grey. The more he looked at it though, the more it looked old and withered. Not sulking. It was more like sorrow — a deep sorrow for something lost. It all seemed very appropriate.

Logan leaned back from the low windowsill and stretched from his uncomfortable, cardboard box seat. They had been working for quite a while, searching box after endless box in the tiny attic room. The whole house was stuffed in the same way. Beyond the fact that every nook and cranny was piled high with boxes of books, brooches, china, linens, pictures, newspaper clippings, theatre props, and stemware, the house was tiny. Gingerbread house tiny. The mice felt cramped.

To find the front door was the first challenge, what with oddly placed bushes and decoy doors that were painted shut. Once a person did find it, the real trial began. The downstairs was a series of rooms that didn’t look like they ought to fit when Logan had seen the house from the outside. They twisted and turned in and out of each other, all stacked to the ceiling with antiques. Odd and useless corners sprang out nauseatingly. There were unnecessary slanted ceilings, built-in living-room bookshelves with a pipe going through one end, and strange, windowed divots in the dining room wall; someone had said they were for plants. It could have been something beautiful, but it was all overshadowed by the sheer quantity of Logan’s great grandmother’s life savings. If a person did manage to find the stairs, they led to an even smaller upstairs. Most everyone had to navigate the upper floor bent over, for the ceilings were too low. Logan wondered if everyone from the past was shorter. The short hallway led to a mirrored door, which opened to a tinier stairway leading to an equally tiny attic.

And here Logan sat, beside the only window which was hidden behind a tower of boxes labeled knick-knacks. He had chosen that side of the room in case he needed to make an escape from an almost certain avalanche. Dropping out the window seemed better than being crushed under his great grandmother’s things.

His uncle had not been so lucky. He had gotten stuck in the other corner, his head against the slanted ceiling, the open drop down the stairway at his back. There he crouched trapped amid the most teetering and dilapidated of all the towers. At the moment, Uncle Sterling was dragging a particularly corroded box that jingled with every pull. Once he got to the stool he had been working at, he plopped down with a grunt and took a deep breath. The stool was so short that his knees were bent up to his chest, but anything taller would cram his head against the ceiling.

How far have you gotten over there? he said in his low rumble.

Logan looked down at his progress. I’m almost through with the war-time buttons and pocket watches.

His uncle sighed, Why in the world would this woman keep all this junk? She never even used half of it.

I don’t mind. This stuff is incredible. They had been at it for hours and barely scratched the surface of what that one, little, attic room held, but Logan knew his great grandmother, or at least he knew the stories about her. She was something of an enigma; the only stories that he had heard about her were vague and adventurous. He knew she had traveled a bit and picked up some interesting souvenirs on the way, as proved by the didgeridoo and alpenhorn he had seen downstairs. But he also knew that she had once been arrested for refusing to move from a movie theatre seat for a whole day because she had loved the film so much she wanted to see it over and over. Of course, he knew that she loved theatre and had opened the only one in town. He may not have been close to her, but he knew enough to know that if he mined deep enough, a dazzling gem was bound to show up.

"Good night! Would you look at how many teapots this woman owned? I’m pretty sure she didn’t even like tea! Logan’s uncle pulled a particularly groovy teapot out of the box that resembled a hippie 60’s van. Mouthing a Wow" he began covering it in bubble wrap in preparation for the auction.

His uncle was another enigma. Logan liked his Uncle Sterling, though Logan was the only one who used that name. The rest of the family called him Jack for some reason; the story was different with each person he asked. But Logan liked his given name Sterling better. And one time, his uncle secretly whispered to him that he preferred it as well. But he was known as Jack to the rest of the world and there was no changing that.

Hand me that rag will you?

Logan tossed him the one closest and continued to sort through a box of buttons, buckles and pocket watches.

So, you ready for school? Uncle Sterling asked.

It was the question that seized Logan’s stomach every time. Uh… It was also the question he didn’t know the answer to.

Nervous, are we?

Logan swallowed, Yeah, you could say that.

Uncle Sterling made his deep rumble, which Logan knew was his way of acknowledging what had been said. Not a no, not a yes, just an mmmm.

Not about leaving home, is it?

No, Logan said, Not really.

Their clinking and scraping through the boxes continued. Worried about making friends?

No, Logan answered again, I’m sure that’ll be fine.

The low rumble.

Wary of your future?

Logan stopped. Yeah. I guess so.

The low rumble.

Logan thought for a moment. He didn’t think he wanted to talk about the next steps his life was taking, but all of a sudden his mouth started moving and he couldn’t stop it. It’s all so confusing. I’m just going to college because that’s the next step, right? And I’m just going to this school because Dad went there. I don’t even know why I’m doing all this. I don’t have a major planned out; I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I’m not even sure what I’m good at.

He took a deep breath. I’m just so… uncertain.

Uncle Sterling made his rumble, nodding. They were quiet for a few moments as he finished wrapping a flowery teapot.

What does your heart tell you?

What? Logan asked, expecting to hear what every other adult had told him: A good education means a good future. Find a career path that is in demand like medicine or business. Once you’re at college, you’ll figure it out.

What do you feel deep down, Logan? What do you wish for in life? Your heart knows that better than anything else.

Logan sat and stared for a while, an old pocket watch ticking away in his palm. No one had asked him that before, and he didn’t know what to say.

It’s not that hard of a question really. You might think it’s embarrassing to admit to your uncle, but I assure you I won’t laugh. He twisted around and stared Logan right in the face. You know what I always wanted to be?

Logan shook his head.

A superhero. He smiled and spun back around continuing to pull endless teapots out of the box. So what does your heart tell you?

Logan thought for a moment. The patter of rain on the roof above them increased a little. Uncle Sterling patiently waited for him to gather his thoughts together. Finally, Logan said, I guess I want… an adventure. Um, you know, I want to… discover things. Find the wonders of the world. Climb mountains and explore jungles. I want to fly in the clouds and walk up to a volcano. I want… I want to see if there’s any magic left in the world. Sterling made his rumble. I guess I feel like… if I go to college, and then get in a career… I won’t have a chance to.

His uncle just nodded, popping a few bubbles as he placed a gravy boat in with the sorted teapots. Then he turned to Logan and said simply, You will.

You think? I mean, college won’t… get in the way?

"College is an adventure. But I know what you mean. You, Logan, have adventure in your blood. You are related to Elsie Mae Humphrey, only the most adventurous great-grandmother you ever had! He smiled a smile that lit up his face, despite the perpetual dark circles under his eyes. I’m sure you’ll have a grand adventure some day."

He went back to the teapots, and Logan finished up with the knick-knacks in front of him. Thanks Uncle Sterling.

The low rumble.

Logan shuffled over and pulled a tremendous box toward his window spot. Prying back the lid he found a small, dusty container. When he pulled it out a rubber ball fell out and started to roll away. It headed toward the attic stairs and bounced down them loudly. Uncle Sterling looked back as it clattered away, and said, Better go get it.

Logan got up quickly, banging his head on the low ceiling. He rushed down the steps holding his head, his uncle chuckling. The ball had just banged into a box and bounced into the bedroom left off the tiny stairs that led to the first floor. He followed it in and reached where it had lodged between a few rolled up rugs. When he straightened back up, he bumped into something behind him and heard a crash in the corner. A picture frame had toppled over and knocked down the alpenhorn, banging against the wall in the corner. Logan squeezed his way over to see the damage.

The alpenhorn had put a large dent in the wall, it had even knocked part of the chair rail loose. When he looked closer though, something seemed strange. He ran his finger over the perfectly straight cuts in the chair rail segment.

I didn’t do that.

He pushed it every which way until suddenly it slipped off the wall. A hole was behind it, and inside it housed a very dusty box. He pulled it out, excitement growing with every second. He could see ink stamps behind the dust as he brushed it off.

He held his breath as he pulled the lid back. All that was there was an old navy blue cloth. A little disappointed he reached in and his hand knocked against something solid beneath. As he folded back the cloth it was as though the world had pulled away from him for a moment, leaving just him… and the book.

Before him lay a grand old book with a scaly, grey-green cover. It was covered in rich leather that smelt of age and magic, and a glittering gold title was carved into it:

True Mythology.

There was nothing else. No author, no date, just the gold words. He lifted it out of the box realizing how heavy and substantial it really was. The old leather cracked as he gently pulled back the cover. Turning to the first page, there was written in a beautiful old script:

He flipped to the next page and on it was a spectacular illumination, etched with such detail that he felt a shiver go down his spine. It depicted a great man, perfect in form and wearing a flowing robe, feet planted on the balcony of a grand columned palace. He pointed powerfully out over the horizon to a darkening sky filled with looming clouds. On the ground surrounding the palace walls were hundreds of men, all in scripted armor, brandishing spears, swords and bows. A look of stone etched each soldier’s face as they gazed out at the mass of creatures the perfect man seemed to be pointing at. Logan recognized the mythical creatures huddled together with panic on each face. Strong centaurs reared and cowered, satyrs ran from the army, elegant women with branches for hair screamed, and a great griffin tended to his broken wing. They looked awful. Not because the artist had depicted them in a horrid bug-eyed way most old books tended to. These had a very… genuine look to them. It was the fear in their faces that looked so awful; complete and utter fear of the perfect man and his army. It was a picture Logan never would have dreamed up, yet as he looked at it, he could interpret each feeling on each face.

He stared at it for a few moments, and then the world returned back around him.

Uncle Sterling, come look what I’ve found!

~ Chapter Two ~

Strange Beginnings

He walked across the street staring up at the striking Mirrorwind Theatre, standing tall among its more reserved neighbors. It stood very resolute and proud, much like one of those old statues that symbolize peace or wisdom. It wasn’t a proud building because it thought itself better than the other buildings, it just was better, and something can’t be what it’s not. The Mirrorwind was undoubtedly the most imposing structure in the whole town. Even more dashing than the courthouse at the end of the teardrop-shaped square Logan was passing through. And though that wasn’t saying much, it really was a beautiful place. The little town of Farwell was quite modest, as all good small towns should be.

Logan glanced up at the gargoyles perched on each corner of each floor; he never got tired of them. There was one small statue topping the lighted sign in front depicting a bowing man with a top hat. Logan thought of him as the doorman, greeting him every time he arrived at the theatre, and that the gargoyles were his trained pets.

Evening, Carmichael. he said, as he passed through the giant glass doors. He quickly strode through the small foyer housing two ticket boxes, one on each end, every inch of its walls covered in mosaic. Through the next doors he entered the grand stairway. It was everything a magical old theatre should be. Floored with rich crimson carpets that muted every footstep, they ran their way up the two staircases curving regally up the walls. The pillars that held the ceiling were adorned with curls and gilded in gold, and in the center of the room, surrounded by the sweeping staircases hung a magnificent glass chandelier, with little painted branches running across the globe at the bottom.

There were a few people milling about taking no notice of the beautiful surroundings. Logan knew them all, of course, living in Farwell his whole life. Janet, older than sin and looking it, was over talking to Beebe, a rotund but flattering woman. Jerrick, an old farmer, was just coming from the theatre hall. He surprised Logan most when it came to acting. A gruff, hardened old man on the outside, and a Julius Caesar on the inside. They nodded to each other as Logan passed through the double doors to one of his favorite places on Earth.

The theatre hall itself was just as grand as the stairway, although a bit subdued, so as not to distract from the magic onstage. It was never too bright so it always had a cozy, lounge feel to it. There were dazzling wood trees scrawled across the walls leading down to the stage, half in the wall and half reaching out. They created a brim around the audience, like a secret courtyard. Above their branches stretched a speckled sky, thousands of stars smiling down from the ceiling, swimming in a sea of purplish blue. Above the stage, scrollwork of creatures crowned the curtains. It showed satyrs and lovely women prancing through a rushing stream frozen in its golden flow. And resting above them was the ancient face of a man, a giant seashell fanning out behind him.

It made for a spectacular sight. People always said the theatre was like a rich dessert you had first, and then went on to the entree. And it was here that Logan had grown up. Among the ruby red curtains and warm lights Logan had acted out many lives. The theatre had become a second home to him, its stage another world. And every time he stood amidst the magic of it all, a small piece inside of him came to life.

He didn’t even know it was inside him. But down, deep in his soul, far behind his heart and to the left of his fears, was a dream. It was in a shadowy corner, locked in a box and covered in responsibilities, looking sad and forgotten. But it had never been completely abandoned. On sunny days where the clouds looked like a painting and the wind rushed through the grass, and nothing could make a person more content, the box rattled. On winter nights when the snow fell quietly and the only light was coming from a crackling fire he watched behind a big mug of hot chocolate, the box lid had strained on its latches. Every small adventure Logan had ever had in his life had unwaveringly and punctually, awakened the dream. He never knew what was inside, he rarely noticed the box was even there, but its existence never faded.

He swept backstage and headed for the makeup room. The noise grew as he pushed through the sound doors and into the mirrored room covered in round light bulbs. There was Uncle Sterling already standing in front of a mirror wearing blue velvet clothes and a shining silver cape. Next to him, praising the getup with loud adoration was the theatre manager, Wayna. She wore a deep green skirt that resembled a saloon girl’s and a blouse with long flowing sleeves.

Yes, yes, yes! Perfect. Oh, you look dashing in silver, Jack! I just love it. Oh, Logan! she sang, Perfect timing!

She deftly swiped a maroon costume from beside her and tossed it to him. I think you’ll love this one.

As he headed to the dressing room, Sterling asked, Did you bring it? Logan smiled and nodded, but when his uncle made to follow him, Wayna’s fingers snatched his sleeve, Ah, ah, ah, we need to hem a few things.

Logan rushed in and pulled the clothes on. He grabbed True Mythology from his bag and rejoined the group. A couple of girls in dresses the size of beach umbrellas lumbered past, giggling all the way. When he got back to the two, still fussing with Sterling’s hem, he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror next to his uncle. Logan was a stout person, a bit more barrel than broom. Not fat, per se, but stocky. He was a contrast next to his tall, solid uncle. Logan looked into his own eyes, which seemed even more forest green in his maroon costume. He glanced at his uncle’s eyes which were the lightest brown he’d ever seen on anyone. They seemed so different from each other. Well, they did have the same black hair, though Sterling’s was flecked in silver.

He dropped the book onto the counter.

What’s that? Wayna asked with needles in her mouth.

It’s an old book we found at Great-grandma’s house.

Oh, Elsie! I miss her already. Her eyes grew distant. Tell me about it, I want to hear something happy about her.

We haven’t quite figured it out yet. Sterling said.

Yeah, we found it in the wall!

The wall? What do you mean? she asked.

Logan explained, There was a hidden compartment in the wall upstairs. But that’s not the most interesting part. He flipped open the pages revealing the elegant handwriting of a bygone age. The entire thing is written by hand.

Wayna peered at the paper, But there’s more than one handwriting.

Exactly! Sterling said.

For some reason, throughout every page he flipped through, the words changed back and forth, from one handwriting to the next, with no discernable pattern. A cracked and scrolling black ink ran through the majority of the book, and looked the oldest. Mixed within was a rich blue ink that passed seamlessly through the elder script in a rounder, but still dignified hand.

But that doesn’t make sense. Wayna said, running a finger down a black paragraph with two lines of blue handwriting mixed in between.

That’s what we thought. But it’s even more than that. I’ve been reading this since I found it. It’s like, Greek mythology. But not really. It’s hard to explain.

Sounds like it. Wayna replied, pinning Sterling’s tunic.

Here look at this. He flipped to the beginning and began to read.

My, that is strange. Wayna said, accidentally poking Sterling with a needle.

And the whole book is like that. He flipped the pages through his fingers, revealing the full grandeur of True Mythology. Sketched illustrations of creatures and buildings were nestled among the words, and littered throughout the rest of the book were additional papers, maps, scraps of tapestries, and even old coins securely fixed to the old pages. Out of nowhere Wayna slapped the book so hard Logan almost dropped it.

What is that? She asked, and they all focused where her finger lay.

I don’t know, Logan said, peering closer, It looks like some note scribbled on the side.

In the margin of a page written opposite the old words, was a manicured, thin handwriting that looped in and out of itself, all in purple. It said,

That’s not just some note, my boy. That is the handwriting of Elsie Mae Humphrey. Wayna stated.

They leaned in a little closer, Sterling accidentally poking himself with a pin again. Are you sure? She wrote in the book?

That means she actually read it, and used it. Logan said.

But wait, Sterling tried again, How do you know it’s Grandma’s?

Jack, please! Wayna stood and swept about indignant as if he had asked whether she could tell her right foot from her left. The woman practically raised me. She’s the only reason I run the Mirrorwind now. I spent decades working with her, learning from her, you think I wouldn’t know her own handwriting!? She picked up a pearl necklace and draped it over her neck, watching herself fiddle with it in the mirror.

"Alright, alright. It just seems strange that’s all. I don’t recall Grandma’s handwriting."

She turned to him, pursed lips locked in place. You want proof or something? Fine. I can prove it. She stormed out of the room, calling, Follow me, from the other room. The two men rushed after her.

They followed her down the steps of the stage through the middle aisle like two dukes following their eccentric queen. When they entered the grand stairway, Wayna tromped over to the wall at the foot of the left stairs. They gathered around a glass case sunk in the wall. It housed a poster for the current performance, and surrounding it was a collage of old programs. Wayna searched them for a few moments then pointed her purple fingernail at one in the corner. It was a very old one, starting to yellow, near the bottom. It was from a Winter One Acts session decades ago, and three unknown plays were printed across the front, things like The Potman Spoke Sooth. But that wasn’t why she was pointing at it. In the corner was an autograph from one of the actors. It was a manicured, thin handwriting that looped in and out of itself.

Elsie Mae Humphrey. Sterling read quietly.

Wayna displayed a triumphant smile.

So it is hers. But… Logan pulled out the book again, what does it mean? Here, Wayna’s smile disappeared but she motioned for him to read the note again.

Balusters up the stairs…in the Mirrorwind? Is there some sort of secret on them?

Or a hollowed out one. Sterling suggested.

"Maybe one’s a secret lever that opens