3

“This is my dream job!” Roana thought to himself.

Sometimes I can hear his thoughts. Mycah claims it is not his doing, and not in his control, but I am skeptical. I like to blame him for things that are out of my control.

“I could fill libraries with all the things I’d like to do to Ailani King!”

My guess is, if his wife knew a quarter of those things, she’d divorce him. If David King knew, he’d probably kill him. Or maybe not. He seemed to want Ro’I to run his mind’s hands all over his teenage daughter. That’s the vibe I got, anyway.

Maybe, hopefully, I’m wrong.

“Now I just need a suitable vehicle to deliver my fantasies. Hmm.”

He spends the next hour pulling random books off the shelves in his ample library. He flips a few pages, then returns them where he found them. This is the one room in his home the maid never needs to clean. Ro’I cares for it as if it is his dearest possession.

I have no idea what he is looking for, but I wish with all my might he would find it, already.

Another hour passes, then suddenly he squeals, “That’s it!”

I rush to meet him at his desk, breaking formation with Mycah, so that I can see for myself what he has found.

The book is old, or so it seems.

The typeset, the binding, the paper itself, all show signs of age.

It is not a modern work.

I catch a glimpse of the copyright on the first page, and it confirms what the other signs have told me. It has been a hundred and fifty years since this tome felt the printer’s press against its soft leaves.

The pages seem to scream with their dry, crackling throats as Ro’I spreads them wider than they have been spread in a great many years.

The binding strains to hold them together and fails. A few of them fall loose under Roana’s fingers as he gingerly flips one over another. He carefully, ever so gently, realigns them before moving on.

Finally he stops and caresses one. The black inked title proclaims that the following pages hold the story of Jeezil and Maribel, whoever they are. My first thought is to ask Mycah, but Ro’I’s finger snakes down the page, and following it with my eye I find I can answer the question myself, with a little patience.

It is soon clear to me why Ro’I was so excited upon finding it.

It also becomes clear to me that the “Great Author” is a plagiarizing son of a witch. No offense intended toward witches. One of these days I’ll explain to you why that term is appropriate for him. For now, suffice it to say that he ritualistically ripped off an ancient tale and updated it for the consumption of modern audiences.

Maribel, you see, was a young maiden – even younger than Ailani King’s sixteen years.

Try twelve.

She was twelve, on the cusp of thirteen.

Within days of reaching sexual maturity (Otherwise known as “flowering”), young, innocent Maribel was visited by a devilish, and devilishly handsome, creature named Jeezil.

He wooed her, and won her in less than a fortnight, as the story goes, and within a year brought her to ruin.

It’s a tawdry tale in its original form, made even more tawdry by the rampant lust that roams the mind of Roana Ignah.

The book he delivered to David King went straight to number one on many of the best best-seller lists.

The home-all-day housewife crowd, in particular, devoured it with all the passion they held back from their husbands.

So, it was no surprise that Savannah Sun inked a deal for the movie rights.

But where the book titillated the minds of its readers, the movie scorched their sensibilities.

It seems people are less offended by the images their own minds create, and more offended by the ones someone else’s mind spews forth.

The sight of their darling starlet, Ailani King, naked and abused for three hours straight – in HD on the big screen - was more than they could bear. They threw it back at the director, the studio, and the author with the gusto only idle hands can deliver.

Protests were organized.

Signs were made.

Boycotts were started.

And worst of all, Social media posts were created of every possible way one might rid themselves of Ro’I’s books, and/or Savannah Sun’s movies.

Shotguns.

Improvised explosives.

Razor blades and blow torches.

Clothes irons and microwave ovens.

Those were some imaginative housewives.

The sword-wielding Paladin culture that was the scourge of my world did not exist in Ro’I’s time.

There were cheeters, but they were a meek, self-effacing, unnaturally forgiving lot.

Unless you offended them.

Then they were all fire and brimstone.

One has to wonder how the old became the new. It seems such an unseemly evolution.

Mycah knows, I’m sure of it, but he has yet to spill the beans.

“It’s not germane to the story, yet, Ravenna.”

Ucch! How many times have I heard that!

Too many.

But I’m getting sidetracked.

For her part, Ailani King did what any injured starlet would do.

She wrote a tell-all book.

Not personally, of course. Who has time for that? She’s on tour, after all. Her ghostwriter, though, with her input, was able to name names and finger dates.

Rumor has it, though Mycah will neither confirm nor deny, that upon learning of her impending memoir, the Director and all the staff who were present on the set – save one cheeter camera operator who quit the first day in protest – gathered for one last orgy followed by suicide en masse.

Just like that, Ailani’s word was the only word as to what happened that day.

The Traveler, as the travesty was called, and its backlash were only the beginning of Ro’I’s trouble.

It is said that those who climb the highest fall the farthest. As great falls go, Ro’I’s was second only to that of Satan, himself.

“You don’t want me to talk about The Traveler, do you, Bea?” He nearly begged of an old friend who had asked him for a favor.

“No, of course not. They’re children.”

“Oh, good. I was worried.”

“No, that wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Of course not. So, what other works of mine have they read?”

“We’re currently discussing excerpts from Hominy House.”

“Oh, great! That’s a great series. It’s done much better than I could have hoped.”

“Yes, they love it. But I must warn you, I have one student who has read every one of your books.”

“Don’t his parents love him?”

“Ha, I know. I can’t believe it either. He’s even read The Traveler.”

“Oh. That's disturbing. I think that borders on child abuse.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to remind him that it’s not appropriate for class discussions.”

“You’ve had to tell him before?”

“Yes. And he’ll do as I ask, don’t you worry. But be warned, he’s quite knowledgeable when it comes to his “favorite” author.”

“Well, the day I can’t handle an eighth grader is the day I should just hang it all up. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, please don’t do that. You now how much I love your writing. I’d never find a suitable replacement.”

“My dear, Bea. Even if I’m never published again, I will endeavor to keep your nightstand warm with my words.”

“Now that would be something. Books written just for me by the greatest author the world has ever seen.”

“Now you’re teasing.”

“Am not!”

“Yes you are, just like you did when we were in high school!”

“I always said you’d be the best, and I meant it. And the world agrees with me!”

“The world wants to hang me!”

“They just don’t understand you. This will all blow over in good time.”

“I certainly hope so. To be honest, I’m not used to people hating my work. I mean, I’ve always had critics, but their voices were always drowned out by those of my fans. This is a new place for me.”

“One that, thankfully, you won’t have to spend a lot of time in.”

“I wish I had your optimism, Bea. I really do.”

“So long as you don’t get my clumsiness with it.”

“Oh, c’mon. You outgrew that awkward stage.”

“You remember what they called me? Fumble Bea!”

“Fumble-Bumble little Bea. Yes, I remember. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to break their noses for you.”

“You’re a writer, not a fighter. Besides, it thickened my skin. Not much rattles me, now.”

“I’m sure that comes in handy when dealing with school kids.”

“I use my thick skin every day, believe it or not.”

“I suppose it’s fortunate that you progress with your class, grade after grade. You get used to them – learn their quirks.”

“Uh. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to get used to new students every year.”

“Probably quit. You could still make it as an editor, you know that. Right, Bea?”

“You know how much I love working with children. So don’t tempt me!”

“Authors are just big kids who need a lot of attention. You’d excel at herding us around.”

“Do you get nap times, or are my eighth-graders more evolved than you?”

“I always forget about that wit of yours!”

“You miss it.”

“I do. Are you free for dinner this evening? My signing runs until eight. Maybe we could meet up after?”

“I have some tests to grade, but I shouldn’t have a problem finishing before then.”

“Great, it’s a date!”

“I’ll see you then!”

They spent the evening catching up. They had been friends for most of their lives, and though they adored each other, never anything more. Theirs was not that sort of attraction. Instead, it was the attraction known to thinking people when they encounter someone with a like mind. No thought of sex ever entered either of their “like” minds.

His wife suspected her, none the less.