The Writer & The Illustrator

Oliver Wendell Winston the Third

Oliver Wendell Winston the Third was bored. He lived in a time when children were preferred to be seen and not heard, and it was better when they were not seen as well. His father had clients in the study, which left Oliver alone in the library. There, the dark-haired, freckled-faced boy sat quietly in his chair, surrounded by books.

Oliver was writing words and their definitions, repeating them over and over and over again until… WAKE UP! Oliver shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He despised writing. He looked down at his arms lying on his parchment paper, smearing his previous work and staining his white shirt with ink. He frantically tried to rub the ink out, but made it worse. He slammed his hand on the desk in frustration. The slam echoed through the room and a thud sounded behind him. Oliver turned slowly, anticipating disaster. What did he break?

Instead of catastrophe, there lay a black book on the floor. Oliver couldn’t see where it had come from. He walked over to the book to read the title. There was none. Perplexed, he opened it, pages were covered in dust.

As he wiped the page, a scribble appeared. Letter by letter a sentence emerged, like a crocodile rising to the water’s surface. It asked a question in tiny ink:

Do you want an adventure?

Oliver waited. Nothing happened. Expectation thickened. He considered what to do. Maybe, the book was waiting for an answer. Excited by his epiphany, he grabbed his pen and wrote below the question: Who isn’t up for an adventure?

The candles in the library instantaneously extinguished itself and the room fell to complete darkness. Though they could not be seen, the desk and parchment and books remained, while our friend Oliver Wendell Winston the Third, did not.

The Writer and the Illustrator

When Oliver blinked he was outside. This outside was not his outside. The grass was a wild swaying sea of cobalt and purple. The sky was erroneously pink. Pen still in-hand, he gathered his bearings the best he could. He was at a crossroads, where four paths branched into different directions. He looked down the windiest way, and noticed someone was approaching.

A loud thud sounded. He spun around on the dusty path to find a familiar culprit to thudding. It was the black book.

He picked it up; however, before he could investigate, the traveler arrived on horseback.

They stopped with a clank, their armor resisting. The knight pointed their sword at Oliver’s throat.

“Who are you?” The knight’s voice rang threateningly.

Oliver put his hands up in surrender, “I’m Oliver, I just appeared here” he said, recognizing how ridiculous he sounded.

The blade moved from Oliver’s gullet and tapped his shirt. “Is that ink?” the knight asked and returned their sword to their belt.

The knight dismounted and removed their helmet to reveal a pixie-haircut, an elfish nose and bright blue eyes. Though a whole head taller than Oliver, he estimated that both of them were around the same age.

“You’re the writer” the knight said excitedly.

“The what?” Oliver asked.

“You’re the writer whose here to help take me home. I’ve been looking for you.” The knight hesitated, but continued carefully, “I’m not from this place; I arrived here through a painting.”

“A painting” Oliver repeated, he wasn’t adding much to the conversation.

“Yes, I’m Avery and I’m the Illustrator.” With the announcement, Avery pulled out a small paintbrush, “And you must be the Writer.”

Eagerly, Avery touched the tip of the paintbrush to the pen in Oliver’s hand and a small spark ignited. The shock vibrated through them and Oliver pulled his arm back, “What was that?” he asked, alarmed.

“The power of our story” Avery explained, “I didn’t know it would do that. I knew it had to do something. It’s possible that now…”

The Illustrator began to wave the brush up and down in the air, like a conductor directing an orchestra. After a couple of swoops and dots, the brush descended. Instead of empty air, a monarch butterfly materialized before them.

“Woah,” Avery said, awestruck. The butterfly flitted away.

Oliver was silent. If the paintbrush could draw anything, what could his pen do? He looked down at the little black book and opened it.

“Ask it how to get me home,” Avery said, leaning over Oliver’s shoulder.

Oliver scribbled the question.

Take the 20,000 pieces of gold, down the river and past the trolls, pay the monks their requested fare, they will know how to get them there.

“What 20,000 pieces of gold?” Oliver asked. As if on que, Avery’s horse whinnied. Oliver hadn’t noticed the side satchel hanging from the horse’s saddle.

Avery blushed, “I may have borrowed some money.”

Oliver could sense that borrowed meant stolen.

Not elaborating further, Avery started to make more brush strokes in the air. After much intricate flair, a striking horse materialized for Oliver.

Avery mounted their horse, “Which way do we go?”

An arrow pointing left appeared in the book.

“That way” Oliver directed, lifting himself up onto his stallion.

The River

The path halted at the river. There were remnants of a bridge floating on the opposing side, which vanished to the depths below. The river was running hastily as if it were late for an appointment. Both adventurers dismounted their horses and considered their options.

“It doesn’t look like we will be able to swim across” Avery was the first to speak, “I am not a very good swimmer.”

“I’m not sure we are meant to cross it” Oliver replied, flipping back to the page he wanted to reference, “The book says we have to travel down the river.”

Avery looked relieved, “I can make that work.”

In no time, a row boat emerged beside the river bank. Oliver admired Avery’s handiwork. “We will have to leave the horses here” Avery nimbly removed armor while grabbing the satchel of gold pieces.

“May I?” Oliver asked, gesturing to peer into the bag. Avery opened the satchel to reveal miniscule flecks of gold. “That’s it?” Oliver questioned, disappointed.

“Gold here needs to bake, just add some eggs and flour to a fleck, and you’ll have golden bricks in about an hour.” Avery explained and noticed Oliver’s surprise. “We aren’t in Kansas anymore” Avery joked. “What’s a Kansas?” Oliver asked. Avery shrugged and got into the boat, “Nevermind.”

Oliver pushed the boat into the water and jumped in without getting too wet. The pieces of clothing that did turned a vibrant orange and smelled of citrus. As he paddled, Oliver wondered how long Avery had been away, but before he could ask, the boat darkened. They entered a ravine, where stone walls jutted upwards, the river narrowed and the water hurried as if sensing a threat.

A twig snapped from overhead, someone was up there. A thunderous cry came from the sky and throughout the ravine popped out large ugly heads. Troll heads. They clamored and hollered and began to drop small boulders down to the precious rowboat.

The boat swayed precariously as each large boulder splashed near them. One finally hit the stern, rocking the two passengers, and Avery fell out.

Oliver frantically looked around and saw a rope that he threw to Avery. He pulled and heaved his completely orange companion back in. The trolls laughed at Avery’s orange state. They continued to throw rocks at the passengers, taking chips out of the boat. One big hit could sink them.

“Oliver, what do we do?” Avery whispered, shivering from the water.

Oliver opened up the black book and grabbed his pen. He didn’t know if this would work, he had to try. In it, he desperately wrote, “The trolls’ rocks turned into flowers.”

As the sentence completed, Avery and Oliver were showered in flower petals. Each troll now held their own bouquet. Enraged, they screamed; the boat continued out of the ravine, unscathed.

“How did you do that?” Avery asked when they were out of harm’s way.

“Like you said before, I’m the writer” Oliver replied, “I think I have a say in this story.”

Going Home

The boat landed on a bank of white sand. Before them, an intricate temple towered. Both jumped out of the boat, marbled stairs lead to two massive doors, which Oliver pushed. They didn’t budge. Avery pulled, and they creaked open. “Show off” Oliver jested. Inside, incense filled the air and mosaics covered the walls; swirls of warm purples, yellows and red spread through the rugs on the floor.

“Welcome.” A hooded figure said from a raised pulpit near the entryway. The two approached, while the monk lowered her hood. She had long gray hair that spilled past her waist. Her grey eyes crinkled in a smile.

“You have traveled far, Illustrator” she said, looking at Avery, “And we know what you want.” She winked. “Do you have what we need?” She reached out her hand, palm up. Avery gave her the satchel strap. She shook it, gauging its weight. “Thank you, my dear, this will do nicely”.

She turned to Oliver, “Are you ready to help Avery home? It’s always sad to see an Illustrator go; nevertheless, we knew it wasn’t going to be a long-term position for this one.”

Oliver nodded.

The three walked toward the back of the temple, a brick wall faced them.

“You will need to draw a door,” the monk directed Avery, “And you will need to tell the book, that the door will lead to home.” The monk said to Oliver.

The two went to work, and a doorknob appeared on the brick wall. Avery turned it.

The door opened up to a sunny foyer. “Avery?” a woman’s voice was heard from beyond, “Avery, where are you?”

“That’s my mom” Avery said, happy tears forming.

Oliver felt a sudden melancholy come over him, he was going to miss his new friend.

Avery turned to Oliver and embraced him, “I’m going to miss you too.”

Avery released Oliver, took a deep breath, and was about to step through the door, when the monk interrupted, “Avery, I believe you are forgetting something.”

Avery looked at the paintbrush.

“It won’t work where you are going.”

Avery sighed, handing it over. Without another word, Avery stepped through. The door shut by itself, closing decisively.

Oliver looked to the monk, who was observing him.

“What about you, young writer? Where do you need to be?”

Oliver pondered the question. There was still so little he knew about the world he was in. He didn’t want the adventure to be over.

“I think I’d like to stay here a while, and learn how to bake some gold, if you don’t mind.”

The monk patted his shoulder, “We don’t mind at all.” She guided Oliver away from the brick wall, and the door vanished.

Epilogue

Oliver Wendell Winston the Sixth was in the library when he heard a loud thud. A black book had fallen to the floor, though he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. He picked it up and ran into his mother’s study.

“Oliver, watch it!” His mother warned, as his abrupt stop disheveled the swirls of warm purples, yellows and red which spread through the rug beneath his feet.

“Mom, look what I found in the library.” He said, displaying his discovery proudly.

“Bring that here,” his mom gestured, closing the laptop and making room for Oliver to climb into their lap.

Avery wrapped long arms around Oliver, and opened the book.

“My goodness, this is an oldie.”

Flipping through it revealed pages of writing, sprinkled with illustrations of monsters and mermaids and one particular page near the beginning with an ugly set of trolls. Avery smiled. The writer had gone on so many adventures.

“Can you read it to me, mom?” The boy inquired.

“For a little bit,” Avery began, “Oliver Wendell Winston the Third was bored…”