Bright Eyes

25.3. Autumn Talks

Lyn had read the Narnia books as a child, and had always found an interest in folktales and mythology ever since. Her cousin had once lent her a book on Greek Mythology, which she devoured over the summer she spent vacationing in her grandma and aunts' place in New York; she was nine then. When she was ten, Lyn pleaded her parents—and rarely did Lyn ever plead, or ask her parents to buy her anything, or even make known to anyone she really wanted something—to buy her an illustrated book on Chinese folklore on their family trip to China, saying it would be her only souvenir and that she would ask them for nothing more than the book.

    A couple hours before Lyn made her way to The Raven's Nest for lunch, to meet up with her friends before they head over to Mr. Brighteyes' cabin, she found herself engrossed in the pages of The Folktales of Waltervere and Other Tales Unknown, her Chemistry book and assignment left abandoned on the table. (She would have to get the assignment done this evening or tomorrow morning, she decided later.)

    And Lyn had found something.

    She had typed down the specific page numbers on her phone, in her Notes app, and presented the book to the librarian, saying she wanted to borrow it. The thin elderly woman then laid out two sheets on her desk—a form and a list—and told Lyn to hand her her library card and fill up both sheets.

    "Don't you have a computer to take all this documentation in?" Lyn had asked, hoping the tone in her voice gave the question a more gentle, genuinely curious air; in her head the words sounded rude and adversely critical.

    The librarian shrugged. "I'm old-fashioned, dearie," she said. "It's just how it is."

    If Jack were there with her that moment, Lyn imagined, he would give off a fake cough, and, all in a rush of words, mutter under his breath, "More like obsolete," and the five of them would have to hold in their laughter until they were well out of the library.

    She knew he would, because it wouldn't be the first time: he would say the same thing whenever Ms. Pince would halt in her tracks and berate Damien, Jack, and Max on the proper wearing of their school uniforms—"Fix your collars, button your shirts all the way to the top, tighten those neckties round your necks. And please, those sleeves of yours, roll them down."

    Lyn fought back the smile that threatened to make its way to her face.

    Nevertheless, she did as instructed. And with a bored, almost lethargic, expression, the librarian said, "All right. There you go. Return it within the week."

    It was nearing twelve o'clock, and the raven-haired girl was walking down the pavement, her black ASICS sneakers tapping inadvertent rhythms against the concrete, a little dissonance amid the whistling of the wind.

    Lyn glanced up at the sky, pushing one hand into the pocket of her oversized black hoodie. Her other hand grasped onto the strap of her backpack.

    She remembered leaving the girls' dormitory under a blue expanse of soft golden light and white cumulus clouds. Now, five hours later, the sky was painted in no other color than a pale, almost-white gray, and the air held its usual chill. Yet the gloom didn't dampen the excitement that made Lyn's heart beat a little faster with each step closer to The Raven's Nest.

    She had found something—the sole thought floated within her headspace, bounced off its walls in an ecstatic kind of thrill, sparkled and echoed amidst the gloomy quietness, waiting rather impatiently for the moment to finally spill past her lips.

    The quaint wooden structure, housing their favorite café, then came to view, and although she was a good twenty minutes early, without any deliberate effort, Lyn quickened her pace. She held on to the strap of her backpack a little tighter, the little book safe inside, between her History and Math textbooks. She could feel a strange yet gentle electric current pervade into her system, as if the book gave off an invisible wave of magic, flowing through the fabric of her backpack to her skin, to her nerves and veins, to her mind and heart.

    Lyn jogged over to the front of the café, placed a foot down on the first step leading up to the porch, and, as she was about to spring up to the next step, she heard someone somewhere say:

    ". . . There's this guilt, you know, knowing we're pretty much putting Damien and his friends in danger."

    Lyn froze noiselessly. She recognized that voice, clearly male and orotund, a little over six feet tall and a head of green hair. The current of euphoric excitement she had felt seconds ago vanished from her veins, washed over by a sudden wave of trepidation. She had to move, quick.

    "I know I'm not directly involved in all this—"

    Lyn stepped back, away from the porch, and edged over to a nearby tree, concealing her form behind the large trunk.

    "—but, yeah, still there's this guilt . . ."

    Lyn peeked over to the side of the trunk, at an angle from where she could see him yet remain more or less almost entirely hidden from view: TJ stood at the opposite end of the porch, looking out; he had a cellphone pressed to his ear.

    "Yes, I know you're in control, and I know this is all necessary," TJ went on. "But, come on, they're kids. They shouldn't be—"

    A pause. Someone on the other end of the line was speaking. Lyn inhaled, glanced around to see if anyone was there to witness her hide behind a tree and eavesdrop, like an idiot in one of those cartoons she grew up watching as a child. To her relief, there was no one.

    "I trust you, I really do," said TJ. Lyn heard him exhale a sigh, in low-level exasperation. "I know you know what you're doing, but after what happened to Max, last Monday, all that blood spilling out of his locker—I don't think I can forgive myself if something worse happens, and the fact I know way more about this than they do, and the fact I'm basically spying on them this whole time and keeping all these things and my involvement a secret from them . . ." Another pause. "Hang on, what? It wasn't them? It wasn't some threat they planted in his locker to scare them off? I thought—"

A moment's silence, then TJ breathed out another sigh.

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't be so worked up over this," he said, solemnly. "I didn't mean to—I know, I know you've got this. Right, all these things must happen. But it's just—This thing it scares me. It sucks knowing all these things and not being completely honest with them. And what's scaring me more than that is knowing your plans and what's ahead. There's no way any of them are coming out unscathed. They're going to get hurt, it's gonna happen, and there's nothing I can do to save them, and there's nothing they can do to save themselves." Another sigh. "But honestly, right now, the guilt of knowing and all these secrets—it's overwhelming—I feel like I'm going to explode under the pressure of it all."

TJ then glanced down at his watch. "Shoot! I gotta go. My break's over. Yeah, thanks for reminding me. Of course, of course. It's for the best. Yeah. Thanks."

    And with that, TJ hung up, pocketed his phone, and drew in a breath. The second he turned around, Lyn pushed herself to the side, to the middle of the trunk, somewhere out of his line of sight, and she crouched down and listened. Heavy footfalls beat against the floorboards, louder with each step closer. Lyn remained frozen still, her hands grasping on to the base of the tree, the bark course and damp to the touch. A door creaked open, then, and the light musical notes of the overhead chime spilt out into the cool open air. Then the door shut closed with a thud, and Lyn let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

    Slowly, she stood up from her crouched position, and found herself leaning against the tree to keep herself standing upright.

    For a moment, everything was quiet, and everything was still. And all in a moment, tidal waves of thought came crashing into Lyn's mind, wave against wave, flooding her headspace in a pandemonium of words and voices. Her brain throbbed with a dizzying pain, and with each pulse racking her skull, Lyn felt a strange heavenward—albeit imaginary—ascent, floating inch by inch off the ground, like an invisible force pulling her soul, slowly and gently, out of the confines of her physical form.

    She had to tell the boys, about the book, about the fragments of the conversation she overheard.

    But this time Lyn wasn't excited at all.

    She felt sick to the gut in utter fear.