Heed The Fire

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Recently, a wicked and powerful wizard summoned the evilest of these creatures together to lay waste to the land…

I closed the book, returned it to the shelf, and continued my search. Search for what? I wasn’t sure. It was the same process every time I pursued the idea of finding a new adventure bound and ready to be fostered. It started off with the initial desire to read something new. Then I would go to the old library, and I would search for hours with no clear idea of what for I was looking. All I had was this deep, thick feeling that I wanted… and that was it. It was rare that a book would reach out, snag me, and pull me close to whisper it’s secrets. Most of the time, I just made a hasty selection because the library closed thirty minutes prior, and eyes were encouraging me to hurry. At this moment, though, I was in a bookstore still being as indecisive as ever. It had only been open for a month, and that was the first time I had visited. You see, the old Dobbin library closed its doors about a month prior, and its collection was dissected and shipped off to various bidders. Before that depressing auction, though, a large selection was kept from bidder’s eyes and a bookstore was opened in the downtown square of Dobbin where they could be permanently adopted. Though the store was young, the books filled it with the ripened smell of old knowledge in a way that only books could. So, in a sense, the place felt familiar.

The store was livelier than the library had ever been. There was a woman with her toddler in the children’s section, an elderly couple browsing through what I believe was history, a college aged woman in romance, and a group of young boys snickering at a National Geographic. They quieted only while I passed by to the next isle. By the entrance was a small counter with a fresh pot of coffee and disposable cups. Even though the store prominently smelled like the library, the coffee aroma, the crowd, and the normal voice volume gave it the coffee shop/bookstore vibe it needed.

After an hour and a half of looking, I decided to adopt a volume of short stories. Not my usual go to, but I figured at least one story in there could at least tickle that “wanting” feeling I had. As I approached the register, I was greeted by the gentleman who completed the adoption process.

“Good day! Are you sure that’s what you want to purchase?”

The question confused me for a moment. No, I wasn’t sure, but I chose to buy it, so isn’t that, in some sense, a decision based on assuredness?

“Do you mean did I find what I was looking for?” I asked.

The middle-aged man, chuckled. “I have been in the book selling business most my life, and I have learned that people carry a book and themselves in certain ways that show me if they really want it, or if they have just settled.” He tapped the cover of the book. “you sir, have settled for this one.” I couldn’t deny his keen observation. To be honest, nothing about the book really reached out and grabbed me, and now that this guy brought full realization to the surface of my denial, I completely lost interest.

“You are right”, I said, but I didn’t feel like looking anymore, “maybe I’ll find something I actually want next time.” I left the book and started to walk out frustrated.

“Whoa, hold up now.” I looked back at the man, focusing mostly on his curl-ended mustache that bent with his smile. “Not only do I help people keep from making a hasty purchase, but I also help them make the right one. How about you step back over here and see if my magic can’t work for you, what do you say?” His proposal seemed a little weird, but interesting, and I had nothing else to get to, so I thought why not. He led me over to a side counter away from the register, and the girl I saw in romance came over to help checkout. Apparently, she was on break.

“Before we start, let me introduce myself: I’m Stanley Strivits. You can call me Stan or Mr. Strivits, whichever is your preference.” We shook hands,

“Stan, I’m Daniel Dobbin, nice to meet you.”

“Dobbin, you say. I presume you are related to the founders of this lovely little town?”

“I’m not sure, but perhaps in some way.” I said, “But, I do know that my great-great grandfather founded the library.”

“How interesting!” Stan said as he started to play with the end of his mustache. “Tell me more, if you don’t mind.” I didn’t mind. I rarely had an opportunity to talk about my family history because most everyone in town already knew, but Mr. Strivits was not from here. At least I didn’t think so. I went on to explain that my great-great grandfather was wealthy and traveled a lot. He collected books and he loved writing, so he converted his mansion into the library so that others in the town could enjoy his tales and stories from around the world. Naturally, my great grandfather and grandfather inherited the mansion-turned-library and continued the tradition, but when it came to my father, he wanted nothing to do with it, but acted interested so as not to disqualify him from his inheritance. Once my grandfather passed, as did the ownership of the library, my father held an auction for all the books and collected goods to be sold, and then he sold the mansion. The city tried to settle on an agreement to keep the library in operation, but for some reason my father would not budge. After that, we had become the ‘black-sheep-family” for selling off town history. “… And that’s about it.” I concluded after giving Mr. Stanley a few more details.

“Well, that must be fascinating to know your family will always be a part of this town’s history. It’s too bad your father didn’t keep the library alive, but I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“I guess he had a good reason, but I can’t get him to talk about it. Once I found out, I even offered to take care of it, but he refused, and I could tell something bothered him about it, so I didn’t press the issue.” Stan looked around, smiled and looked at me with squinty eyes, “follow me, young man”, he said as he walked to one side of the store, “I believe you will have a particular interest in something.” The guy still gave off a weird vibe, but I was very curious to see what he had to show me.

We came to a door that I thought led to an office, but instead it opened to stairs leading down into a basement. As we went down, I saw that the room covered the same square-footage as the store above except the basement was completely open. From one wall to another was a sea of books and boxes. The room was well lit and there was a desk in a corner, where Mr. Stanley worked when he wasn’t at the cash register.

“In here are some of the rarest books and artifacts that were in the Dobbin Library.”, he said once we reached the basement floor. “Some items never made an appearance to the public, but I’m sure you’ve seen them since it was your family’s library.” I had an empty feeling in my gut like I had been punched, “Actually, I probably haven’t. I wasn’t allowed to visit my grandfather often, and when I did see him, it had to be away from the library. The only time I was there was like anyone else: just looking for a book.”

“Really?” Mr. Stanley was dumbfounded.

“Like I said, my dad had something against that place, and he didn’t want to get near it, and he really didn’t want me there either, but I got as close as anyone else.” Stan was looking away like he was pondering something. Once he noticed I was looking at him wondering what I was to do next, his mustache bent, and his eyes squinted as he smiled.

“After today, you will no longer wonder what secrets that library was hiding from you and the world. Look through everything here. One item; any item here you may have at no charge. Anything you desire after that, we can work out a deal. How does that sound, Daniel, my boy?” I didn’t answer immediately, but instead scanned the room with that deep “wanting” feeling bursting within me. I began to thank him, but he patted me on the shoulder and headed up the stairs.

“No need to thank me”, he said, “all of this would probably be yours anyway if your father hadn’t broken tradition. Take your time and choose what calls to you.” By the time he finished speaking, he had passed through the door at the top of the stairs.

Choose what calls to me…

“Strange man”, I said aloud to myself as a chill ran down my back. Nonetheless, I began my search. Search for what? I wasn’t sure, but apparently it would let me know when I found it. I started walking around observing every item and book I passed. Most of the books down there were very old and didn’t have any titles or pictures on the front. I came to the back corner of the room and all the books there were journals. I picked one up, began reading, and I realized they were filled with stories written by my grandfathers before me. I lost track of time, and I became lost in the adventures recorded in detail. I have to say, these guys were creative. There were some crazy stories, memorial characters, and fantastic worlds of all kinds. They presented everything in such a way it made you feel like you were there. For the first time, in a long time, these books were pulling me in. That wanting feeling I had was being satisfied. I can’t help but wonder if these stories were calling out to me from hidden places in the library, my forefather’s mansion, and trying to reach me. I learned quickly, though, it was something else altogether.

As I was deep in a story, a high-pitched tinkling pieced my ears. Every other sound vanished and all I could hear was that sound. I turned one way, then the other. I realized it was coming from further back in the corner. I put down the journal and I pushed boxes and books out of my way. When my hand touched a particular cardboard box, I felt a sharp needly pain in my fingers and the volume of the sound exploded. I opened the box and pulled out wads of old newspaper until I saw it: A very old three-inch by three-inch block of wood. Its surface was smooth, its corners round, and the wood was red and very aged. The sound was deafening, but as soon as I cradled the block in my hand, the sound vanished. I wanted it. Why though? Its just a block of wood. What’s so speci… Choose what calls to you… I freaked out and dropped the block. As soon as I did, the tinkling sound pierced me again. “Damn it, that’s loud!”, I said. I grabbed the block, and again silence.

I completely forgot about the journals and everything else in the room. I ran to the stairs and went up to the store. I had really lost track of time. It was dark out and there were just a few lamps throughout the store that were left on. The place was dead, and I couldn’t find Stan anywhere. He said I could have one thing without charge, so I left with it, jumped on my bike and raced home.

Once I was in my room, I tried to figure out what to do next. I couldn’t put it down unless I wanted to enjoy that lovely sound screeching through my brain. I looked the block over and over. Was it a box? A puzzle? I was puzzled, no doubt. I began researching the web. Nothing. I ended up falling asleep at my desk with the thing in my hand. If for nothing else, it made for a great alarm once my cat got up on my desk and swatted it out of my hand. I don’t think I have ever moved so fast in all my life. Same goes for my cat. I spent my whole day Saturday trying to figure it out. That thing really distorted time for me. Before I knew it, it was evening and I had had no success. I was dumbfounded. I was just sitting there at my desk staring at this block in my hands. Based on its appearance, there wasn’t anything special about it. What intrigued me was the sound I had to endure if I let it go; it was quite frustrating. Was I supposed to go the rest of my life with this thing in my hand? Nope, not happening. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and kind of wandered in my thoughts. I began thinking about the library and my thoughts raced about what else may have been there for me to discover. Perhaps the journals might have said something about the block. Then I began thinking about my grandpa. I didn’t get to visit with him as much as I wanted, but when I did, he always had some interesting concept to talk about, or some deep wise proverb to offer. He would tell me all kinds of stories. When I read through his journals, it was like he was right there talking to me, kind of weird. I guess that’s where I get it. I was always creating stories and adventures in my head. I just never sat down and put them to paper. They would play through my minds eye like a teaser trailer, and I’d think to myself, man, that would make a great book! I guess all those times I left the library with that “wanting” feeling I should have followed my grandpa’s advice: “If you cant find a story worth reading, write one worth telling”. With my eyes shut, I smiled as I remembered my grandfather, and I squeezed the block tightly at the thought of wishing I could see him again and hug him one more time. Just then, something happened. Suddenly the block turned to sand and spilled out of my hands, and I could feel something metallic in my palms. I open my hands slowly and it took me a minute to figure out what I was looking at. It was two pieces of jewelry made of gold. They were intricately decorated with interesting swirling designs. One looked like a glove for the pointer finger and the other looked like a glove for the thumb which would also cover part of the palm and back of the hand. Both had jointed sections so as not to restrict the wearers finger movements. Mysterious jewelry that came out of a solid block of wood-turned-to sand. What was I to do next? Naturally, don’t think logically about it and put them on. Great idea. So, I put them on and they, of course fit perfectly. Once I had them on, I turned my right hand to observe how they looked. Strange concept, but kind of cool. Suddenly I felt a pain like something bit off my pointer and thumb, and there was a flash all around me. As quickly as the pain and flash happenened, it was over. A little freaked out, I tried to remove the jewelry, but it wouldn’t come off. I started to panic and really tried to get them off, but nothing worked. I took a breath and calmed myself the best I could. As soon as I got my wits together, though, the intricate swirls began to glow a deep red. I froze for a minute. I watched as the light looked like it traveled to the tips of my fingers. From there, little electric streams would shoot from tip to tip, so I slowly closed my fingers together. As I did the electric streams grew brighter, and when my fingers were close enough to be holding a pen, and red beam shot up and down vertically and formed and hologram-plasma-pen-like object. I just stared in awe. “What in the Hel..” suddenly my hand moved on its own and with the glowing object it began writing on my desk. The letters were in beautiful, perfect cursive like you would see on the Declaration of Independence. The letters became etched in my desktop and glowed with the same red light and the jewelry and stylus did. Once the writing was finished, I had control of my hand again. I read what was written:

A hero is not without opposition.

A villain is not without oppression.

Neither are sane outside a tale.

Trust carefully, heed the fire, do not fail.

Upon finishing the riddle, my ceiling crashed down behind me. I turned and to my horror an awful looking creature stood over me. He was at least seven feet tall. His skin was greasy, black, and reptilian. His eyes black with red vertical slits and mouth and snout jutted from his face like a crocodile. Long black hair came down the sides of his head and over his chest. His body bulged with muscles. I swiveled slowly in my chair to face him. As I did, he unsheathed a sword whose blade was made from obsidian. He pointed at me, and said, “Lord Dobbin, your death will bring me victory this day, and I will take pleasure in the spilling of your blood.” With great speed he lunged and raised the sword to strike. In terror I threw up my hand with the glowing stylus and reactively yelled, “help!” and suddenly something massive crashed through the wall on my right, rammed into the creature that wanted to kill me for who knows why, and both went crashing through the wall to my left. I immediately ran down to the garage grabbed my bike and headed for the bookstore. For some reason I thought Mr. Stanley could help me. I had a strange feeling he knew something about everything that was going on based solely on his odd statement:

Choose what calls to you…