Thomas Wildus and the Book of Sorrows Read online

  He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to stand still. The air rushed out in a whoosh. “I-I just do.”

  “But why?” The man’s expression was curious, focused, his eyes boring into Thomas like a drill. “And even if there were such a thing, what would it have to do with you?”

  “Never mind. Just forget about it.” Thomas spun toward the exit, his cheeks flushed and heart racing. Halfway to the door, he paused. The man wasn’t laughing. He was asking questions. That, at least, was different. Thomas turned around. The man’s unwavering eyes reflected the overhead lights, glinting with fragments of gold.

  “It’s, uh, it’s something someone told me a long time ago,” said Thomas. “Someone I trusted.”

  The man tilted his head, his expression almost curious. “Somebody told you magic is real, and you believed them?”

  Blue eyes stared at Thomas out of a distant memory, sincere and earnest. He felt the roughness of his dad’s calloused hand on his cheek, the tickle of soft beard as he pulled Thomas close and kissed his forehead for the last time. “Magic is real, Thomas.” Magic is real.

  Thomas drew himself up to full size and met the man’s stare directly. “Yes. I did. I do.”

  “And now you want a magic book, but not the make-believe kind?”

  Thomas nodded. The shopkeeper’s eyes were ageless, his stare unsettling. Thomas stood tall, refusing to break the connection even though his insides had turned to jelly.

  “What is your name, young seeker of magic?” The hint of a smile crinkled the subtle features of the man’s face.

  “Thomas,” he answered. “Thomas Wildus.”

  The smile lines smoothed, and the man’s face took on a serious expression. “You’re late.”

  TWO

  “Late?” Thomas asked, suddenly confused.

  “Indeed. We have been expecting you. How is it that you finally found us?”

  Expecting me? Finally found us? Thomas wasn’t sure if he should take the man seriously, and even less sure how to explain what had just happened outside. “I, uh, I’m not really sure. I was walking by and there was this guy sitting on the sidewalk across the street—I think maybe he was homeless—and he was humming or singing or something, but then he disappeared and there was this flash, and then I saw the sign outside and decided to come in.”

  “So, nobody told you to come here?” The man’s expression was quizzical, almost surprised. “How very curious. I suppose the important thing is that you’re here now, only how can I be sure you are who you say you are?”

  Thomas fished in his backpack and came up with his school ID. The picture wasn’t his finest, but it was the only form of identification he had. “I have this.”

  “Very well, Master Wildus.” The little man handed the ID back and was moving toward the door before Thomas could think or react. He flipped the sign from Open to Closed, pulled the door shut, and slid the heavy deadbolt sideways. The bolt snapped into place with an audible thunk. “Wait here. I have something for you in the back.”

  Why did he lock the door? Thomas’s mouth went dry. He stared after the little man as he headed to the back of the shop and disappeared between a set of tall bookshelves. A door creaked open and then thudded shut. Thomas waited, an anxious buzz tickling the skin of his palms, questions spinning through his head. Something for me? What is going on here?

  Minutes passed, a lifetime each, and finally, the door creaked opened again. Footsteps padded softly along the carpeted floor. The little man came back into sight, a caramel-colored wooden box in his hands. He held the box gently, almost tenderly, as if a living thing were hidden inside.

  Thomas’s eyes locked on the keyhole. Something stirred in his chest, heavy and foreign and powerful. Desire. Longing. Something even deeper. Need. He had to see what was inside. He reached for the box, but the man took a half-step backward.

  “Patience, Master Wildus. Before I give you this box, we must discuss the price of the book it contains.”

  Thomas’s excitement crashed. Price? Of course, it has a price. He stared at the little man in disbelief. Was all this a setup? Was the whole we’ve-been-expecting-you thing just a way to extract money from dumb kids with silly dreams? He swallowed down a mouthful of disappointment and forced himself to ask the obvious question. Maybe the number wouldn’t be too ridiculous. “How much is it?”

  “You misunderstand me,” the man answered. “This book is not for sale.”

  “I—I’m not sure I follow.” Thomas searched the man’s face for a sign of mockery, for a hint that he was being pranked, but found his eyes unwavering. “But you just said something about price.”

  “I did indeed,” said the shopkeeper. “The book is not for sale, but it can be borrowed.”

  “How does that work?” asked Thomas. “Do I need to sign up for a membership or leave a deposit or something?”

  “Not exactly.” The man looked almost amused. “No, the price must fit the prize, as the saying goes, and the prize is priceless.”

  “What does that mean? Can I borrow the book or not?” Thomas tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice but wasn’t sure he quite succeeded.

  “It means that money isn’t valuable enough.” The man looked at Thomas appraisingly, as if sizing him up in his head. Finally, he nodded. “Time. For you, the price will be time.”

  “Time? I don’t—”

  “Yes, time. Your time, to be precise.” The man ran his hand over the lid of the wooden box, gently, almost lovingly. “In exchange for access to this book, you will grant me five hours per week of your time, to be used as I see fit.”

  Thomas forced himself not to stare at the box too desperately and did a quick mental calculation. The book couldn’t be more than a few hundred pages. He’d read it in a couple days, a week at most. Five hours was probably extortion, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Even if the whole thing was a sham, he’d wasted time and money on far less promising leads. He nodded in agreement. “Okay.”

  “We are agreed then? Five hours per week, for as long as the book is in your possession?” said the shopkeeper.

  “Yeah.” Thomas held out his hands, ready to take the box. “It’s a deal. I’m in.”

  “Not quite yet, Master Wildus.” The man kept the box in his hands. “Time is the price, but the terms are just as important. Before I hand this over to you, you have to promise that you will follow our rules precisely and unfailingly. In matters such as these, one simply cannot be too careful. Especially now, when the stakes are so high.”

  Thomas stared uncertainly, not sure what to make of any of it. The little man stared quietly back. There was no laughter in his expression, no obvious hint of deception in his eyes. Thomas struggled to wrap his head around the possibility that this wasn’t a joke, that maybe there was something special about the book. “Okay. What are your rules?”

  “The rules are not mine. They pertain to the book and are for your benefit as well as our own.” He paused, meeting Thomas’s eyes. “The first rule is absolute secrecy. The fact that the book is in your possession cannot be known outside of this room. Not to your friends. Not to your family. Not to anybody. Is that clear?”

  Thomas took a breath. Keeping secrets wasn’t his thing, especially not from his mom and Enrique, but now he had to see the book. Had to. “Crystal clear.”

  “Good. The second rule is that you may only read one chapter at a time, and never more than a single chapter in a given day. No exceptions.”

  Thomas groaned inwardly, but forced himself to keep a straight face. Finishing in a few days was off the table, but he was committed now. Unless the rules got totally ridiculous, he was going to say yes. “Got it. One chapter per day, max.”

  “Very well. The third and final rule is that you must only open this box in the privacy of your home, and only when you are completely alone,” said the man. “There must be no exposure of the book to anybody but yourself for the entire time it is in your possession. The process must be allowed to unfold without interference.”

  A chill ran up Thomas’s spine. Process? What’s that supposed to mean? He forced himself to take a breath and act calm. “No problem. My mom works late half the time anyway, so that should be easy.”

  “Wonderful.” The man shifted the box a few inches closer to Thomas’s outstretched hand. “Now, I will ask you one last time. Do you agree to follow the rules exactly as they have been described to you, in spirit and in practice, and to uphold your end of our agreement in good faith and as a matter of personal honor?”

  Thomas felt like he’d stepped into an alternate universe, but he didn’t need any time to think. “I do. Yes.”

  “Good. I will ask only two more things of you, Master Wildus.” He took an oddly old-fashioned key from his pocket and set it on the wooden lid. The handle was looped, the shaft dotted with prongs. The metal had a strange, almost luminous quality to it, as if fashioned of silver and moonstone. “First, please do everything in your power to keep this book safe.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Thomas. “I will.”

  “I trust that you will.” The man locked eyes with Thomas once again. “There are only three copies of this text in the known world. It would be a genuine tragedy if the book were to become damaged, or worse, fall into the wrong hands.”

  Thomas looked at the box, his heart beating a thousand times per second. Three copies in the known world? The wrong hands? He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “My final request is that you return the book as soon as you have finished the last chapter. I repeat, immediately after reading it. Are we agreed?”

  Thomas tried to answer, but the sound caught in his throat. He forced a cough and tried again. “Mmm hmm. Yes. I agree,” he managed.

  The man stared into Thomas’s eyes for a long moment, then extended the box in his hands. The key slid forward. Thomas’s hand shot out instinctively, catching it as it fell toward the floor. A shock jolted up his arm as soon as his fingers touched metal, forcing his fist to clench shut and jarring his arm with the force of an electric eel. A thrill of fear and excitement rippled through Thomas’s body even as the shock dissipated. He looked from the key to the man, his eyes wide.

  The shopkeeper raised an amused eyebrow and handed Thomas the box. “Tuck this into your backpack and keep it hidden until you are safely alone. I’ll expect to see you here for the first of your five hours before the week is out. For you, Thomas Wildus, the interesting things in life are only just beginning.”

  THREE

  “Hey, sweetheart. How come you’re home so late?”

  “Hey, Mom. I missed the bus after Kung Fu.” Thomas returned her gentle hug.

  “Again? Why didn’t you call? I could have picked you up on my way home.”

  “Waiting isn’t so bad. And anyway, I wasn’t sure you’d be done with work.” Thomas felt strange not telling her the whole story, but how could he explain the bookstore without talking about the book? He wasn’t about to flat-out lie. Not to his mom. “Sorry I didn’t get here in time to make dinner.”

  Susan Wildus laughed and squeezed him tighter. “Not even thirteen years old and already you’re taking care of me. How did I get so lucky?”

  Thomas wriggled out of her grip as she started to ruffle his hair. His eyes landed on the pile of papers balanced on the corner table his mom used as a workstation. He felt a familiar swell of disappointment. “Is that all for tonight?”

  “Afraid so, kiddo. Due tomorrow,” said Susan. “Would you mind popping something in the microwave for us? If I don’t keep going, it’s going to be morning before they’re all graded.”

  Most professors had TA’s—or teaching assistants—to do their grading for them. Susan Wildus refused to let anyone else assess the quality of her students’ work. The personal attention was one of the reasons her classes were always full. An unfortunate side effect was that when she wasn’t buried in her own research, she was up to her eyeballs in papers and tests. Not ideal.

  Thomas checked the freezer. It was almost empty. “Is turkey and mashed potatoes okay? That’s pretty much all we have left right now.”

  “Perfect,” his mom called back. Her voice was already distracted.

  Thomas peeled the cellophane wrapping and slid the tray into their microwave then set out forks, knives, and napkins. The rustle of papers and the scratch of a pen filtered out of the living room. He sighed and looked in the cupboard for dishes. Empty. Everything was in the sink or on the counter. Thomas turned on the water and grabbed a sponge. By the time he’d scrubbed a few plates and loaded the rest into the dishwasher, the microwave was beeping.

  Thomas carried his mom’s plate into the living room and set on the desk next to her stack of papers.

  “Smells great,” said his mom, quickly glancing up. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Thomas. “If it’s okay, I’ll be in my room. Yell up if you need me.”

  “Mm-hmm. I will,” said Susan. “Dream beautiful dreams.”

  “I’ll try. Don’t stay up too late.”

  “I’ll try.” Susan flashed a smile. “I love you, sweet boy.”

  “Love you too, Mom.” He kissed her on the top of her head, then picked up his meal and headed toward the stairs. He paused in front of the lone photograph on the mantel. Familiar blue eyes stared out at him, clear, twinkling. In the picture, John Wildus looked exactly like he did the night he walked out the door for the last time. Thomas had only been five years old at the time, but the memory was as fresh as if it happened yesterday.

  Magic is real, Thomas. No matter what happens, always remember that. He walked out the front door a few seconds later, never to be seen or heard from again. That was seven years ago, and his mom still wouldn’t talk about what happened. Thomas didn’t remember a funeral. He wasn’t even sure there had been one. His dad was simply gone. No longer on this earth, as his mom would say. It was a silly euphemism, but it painted a clear enough picture.

  Thomas turned away from the photograph, a cool shiver running up his back. “Magic is real, Thomas.” The words were as clear as if his dad were once again kneeling in front of him, his blue eyes staring into Thomas’s own, smile lines crinkling the edges of his face. His dad was gone, but to Thomas, John Wildus had never seemed closer.

  FOUR

  It was midnight before Thomas finally resigned himself to the fact that sleep wasn’t coming. His brain wouldn’t turn off. The little wooden box seemed to whisper his name, calling to him from its hiding place under the bed. Thoughts of the afternoon bounced in his skull. Already, he could tell that the rules would be way harder to follow than expected. Not being able to open the box unless he was home alone was rough. Keeping it hidden from his mom and friends was going to be brutal.

  He switched on the reading light and reached under his bed. His fingers met wood. A thrill of excitement sped through his veins.

  Thomas ran a hand over the lid, letting his fingers slide down toward the metal clasp. Electricity leaped across the space, a tiny arc of bright blue that zapped Thomas’s finger. He jerked his hand back instinctively. The bedside light flickered. Dark shadows ran across the ceiling, a flood of sudden movement twisting through the room.

  Thomas leaped to his feet, adrenaline pumping through his veins. A splash of color caught the corner of his eye. He whirled to face it, hands raised in self-defense.

  Dirty laundry lay in a pile on the floor in front of his closet, his red tennis shoes tossed lazily on top. Nothing moved. The light was steady, the room empty. The only thing out of the ordinary was his overactive imagination. He could almost hear his mom telling him to pick up the mess.

  The breath whooshed out of Thomas’s lungs. He flopped onto his bed and lifted the box by the wooden edges. His fingers paused, the edges catching tiny ridges and contours. He lifted the box into the light. It was a slightly darker color than the slats of the top bunk and made of a higher quality wood.

  A line of miniature symbols ran around the edges, carved so finely as to be nearly invisible. The shapes weren’t quite letters or pictures but something closer to hieroglyphs. Maybe that’s what they were. He turned the box, focusing on the lid. A delicate pattern emerged, hardly visible even in the light. There were dozens of shapes and symbols, the etchings almost completely hidden beneath layers of varnish.

  The box felt suddenly heavier, the patterns more visible. Without thinking, he reached for the bedside drawer, groping for the key he’d tucked inside. His skin grazed metal and a shock jolted his arm, burning a trail to the top of his head. He jerked his hand out of the drawer.

  The key came with it, the metal attached to his fingertip like a magnet. Thomas stared, eyes wide, as the buzzing slowly subsided. He reached out, hesitantly, and grabbed the white metal with the nervous fingers of his other hand. The key came away without further shocks or jolting. He held it up to the light. The material looked and felt almost ordinary. Almost.

  The urge to open the box was overwhelming, but the shopkeeper’s rules were fresh in Thomas’s mind. Only when you are completely alone. With a sigh, Thomas dropped the key back into the drawer and slid the box out of sight behind a stack of comics under the bed. He climbed between the sheets, clicked off the light, and stared at the glowing star stickers under the top bunk. Eventually, fatigue won out and his eyelids fell heavily shut.

  FIVE

  “Thomas, honey, are you up yet? Thomas?”

  Thomas groaned and pulled a pillow over his head.

  The knocking on his door grew louder. “Thomas. It’s almost time for school. If you don’t hurry, you’re going to be late again.”

  Thomas’s eyes flew open. “I’m up!”