Lord of the Manor -- Section 2

[Sorry this took so long to post. I didn't get to my writing until this afternoon.]

            Maddie's mom walked into the kitchen of SPRINGFIELD PIZZA AND SUBS.

            "Looks like someone's moving into that old mansion," she said. "Didn't the old man die?"

            Maddie sat up straighter on her stool and stopped flipping through the pages of a National Geographic magazine. "Who is it?"

            Her mom shrugged. "Some boy. I worry about him, out there all alone. The old man did die, didn't he?"

            "Yes, Mom. Mister Arches died last month."

            "Arches! That was the name. What's up with a name like that?"

            "Mom? Seriously? You're walking around with the name of 'Sparks,' and you're making fun of 'Arches?'"

            "It wasn't my name to start with. I used to be a Robinson."

            "So you CHOSE to be a Sparks," said Maddie. "That makes it even worse."

            "No, honey," said her mom, patting Maddie's shoulder, "I chose to marry your father, and that made it better."

            Maddie gave her mother the best fifteen-year-old glare of disgust she could muster, but it didn't last very long. Actually, she liked that her mom and dad still seemed to be in love with each other. Sure, it was a little bit wrong when people over forty kissed in public, but she supposed it was a small price to pay for a family that wasn't split up across the country.

            "So who's the boy?" she asked.

            "Not sure," said her Mom. She stuffed her permed, brown hair under a hairnet and grabbed a scoop for flour. "Looked about your age, maybe, but short. Quite a bit shorter than you, actually."

            "Thanks, Mom." Maddie was a solid five-nine in flat shoes. "I blame your genetics, you know."

            "It's not wrong to be tall," said her mother, dumping flour into the massive mixing bowl. "It makes you a powerful woman. A valkyrie."

            Maddie rolled her eyes. "Oh, nice. Didn't they swoop down from Valhalla to collect the souls of dead warriors?"

            "Exactly. They got to pick up the best."

            "Right," said Maddie. "And then they took them back to a big mansion where the warriors all ate a lot and got drunk. No thanks."

            "You worry too much about your height," said her mother. "Your father is three inches shorter than I am, and he still married me."

            "Four inches," said her father, backing out of the walk-in refrigerator with a crate of bell peppers. "What are we talking about?"

            "Maddie's worried that she's too tall for the boy moving into the old mansion."

            "Mom!"

            "Good looking, is he?" asked her dad.

            "Dad!"

            "Pretty cute," said Mom. "He has these beautiful blue eyes and looks like a smart kid. He's short, though. Maybe five-one."

            "What size are his feet?" asked Dad.

            "I didn't think to look."

            "If he's got big feet, then it's a sure bet he'll grow into them. Then he'll be perfect for you, Maddie."

            "I'm not interested in the boy," she protested. "I haven't even seen him! I just want to know more about the manor."

            "You mean the mansion?" asked her dad.

            "It's not a mansion," she protested. "It's a manor."

            He dumped the peppers into the sink and started washing. "What's the difference?"

            "I don't know," said Maddie. "A mansion is...generic. Cheap. A place where people with too much money and no taste live. Daimon Home isn't like that. It has class. It's OLD money."

            "Not enough of it, from what I hear," said her mom, measuring more ingredients into the mixer. "Place is falling apart."

            Maddie sighed. It WAS falling apart. She knew, because she was always the one who delivered the pizza out there. It was a little far on her bicycle, but Mr. Arches had never seemed to mind the wait. He asked for her every time, and he always had peppermints for her. She didn't really like peppermints--on principle, mostly, since she didn't particularly like anything else with the word 'pepper' as part of its name--but when Mr. Arches gave her the candy, she took it. It made her feel good to talk with him, like he was HER grandfather. Of course, he was probably old enough to be EVERYONE'S grandfather, but that didn't stop her from feeling special whenever she saw him.

Hadn't stopped her.

            "Maybe the new owner will be able to fix it," said Maddie, more hoping than actually believing.

            "A place that large?" said her dad. "The property taxes alone must be astronomical."

            "And the staff to take care of it all," said Mom, "though as far as I can tell, he has none. How is that boy going to manage out there?"

            "The mysteries of being wealthy," said her dad. "Maybe he's just the advance party, and the rest will show up later."

            "The rest of who?" asked Maddie.

            "The rest of the people who are going to eat our pizza. Speaking of which, Maddie, these peppers aren't going to cut themselves."

            "You're making them sound mentally ill, Dad."

            "Hey now," he said, giving her a level gaze. "Don't joke about that stuff. And get a knife and come kill these peppers. I know it gives you satisfaction."

            Maddie hopped off her stool and went to wash her hands. Her dad was right: the only thing peppers were good for was cutting into very small pieces.

            "He's here," said Bunch, slipping in through the hole under the Noon Clock.

            "I heard," said Crooks, chewing on his fingernail. His last one that hadn't been chewed on, in fact. He forced himself to put his hands on the arms of his small wooden throne and ended up tapping his toes instead. "He went to the Great Hall, didn't he?"

            "Yeah," laughed Bunch, scratching his round, shirtless stomach. "The idiot. Trying to get himself et up, is he?"

            "Who knows?" said Crooks. "Some men fancy themselves brave. Think they can face the dark mysteries of the world and come off victor. Perhaps he's one of that type."

            "Don't think so," said Bunch. "A boy like that? Nope, don't think so."

            Crooks' toes stopped. "A boy?"

            "Right. A boy. Not much of one, either, by human standards. Maybe five lags high, or two and a half bags. There about."

            "A boy," muttered Crooks. "And a young one. What was Master Arches thinking?"

            "What's that?" asked Bunch, crunching on something green that Crooks preferred not to look at too closely.

            "Nothing, Bunch. Thank you for coming to tell me. Do you know where the boy is now?"

            "He wandered round to the North Wing. Last I saw him, he was talking with old Spit-n-Polish."

            "That's Master Silver to you, Bunch. And thank you." Crooks looked at the imp meaningfully.

            "Oh, right," said Bunch. "I'll be off then." He bent down his bat-like ears and squeezed himself back out through the hole where he'd come in. Crooks was left alone in the small, hidden room that was about all that was left of his kingdom. True, he did have a number of loyal retainers still, but considering what problems faced Daimon Home, there wasn't much he could do with the few and the small that followed him. He needed numbers, and to get numbers he needed the support of the Lord of the Manor.

            And now a boy had come. A young boy, if his size were any indication. What had Master Arches been thinking? Crooks stood and began pacing a circuit around his small room, smacking his fist lightly against each wall as he came to it. A boy. Surely Master Arches had understood what they were dealing with here--no, Crooks was CERTAIN Master Arches knew. They'd talked about it often enough in the months of struggle and decline.

            But why leave the manor to a boy? Perhaps at the end his mind had gone. Crooks hadn't seen it, but truly, he didn't understand humans all that well. Such a changeable race. Mercurial. Perhaps Master Arches' body had failed him at the end and he'd made a mistake. Perhaps the boy wasn't the old Master's heir at all.

            If that were the case, then Crooks hoped all the powers of Air and Earth and Darkness would help the boy, because he'd need it. Even Master Arches' considerable strengths hadn't been enough to control what had taken root in the Great Hall.

            Michael looked down. "What--um, hi," he said.

            "Good day to you as well, young Master. You are Master Arches, are you not?"

            "I--yeah--yes, I think so. That's what the attorney, um, Mr. Canker called me, anyway."

            "Excellent," said the small man--man? "Please follow me. I suppose you're hungry. Teenage boys always are, in my limited experience."

            "Right. Yes, I am. Great," said Michael, knowing he was babbling, but babbling on anyway. He forced his mouth shut.

            "Leave your things there," said the small person. "No one will touch them in this part of the North Wing." Then he turned and walked into the clean, tiled hall.

Michael stared. The...person...that had welcomed him was maybe two-feet tall--maybe--and looked like a very small butler. Pressed, clean suit, white hair, prominent nose, all the things Michael had imagined in a butler. Except for the wings. Most butlers probably didn't have bat wings. Of course, Michael didn't have much experience with butlers, but he was pretty certain that a survey of manor houses throughout the world would turn up very few with bat-winged butlers.

            To the small man's credit, they were very well kempt bat wings. Shined and polished, almost like fancy shoes. In fact just about the exact same shade of black as the butler's highly glossed footwear.

            "Are you coming, Master Arches?" The small man had stopped by a door on the left of the hall, just a few feet down the passage.

            "Sure. Of course." Michael pulled his suitcase in through the door and pushed the door closed. He looked down at the suitcase, then at the butler, then back to his suitcase.

"Truly, Master Arches, your suitcase will be fine. Please come with me and I'll find you what food I can. I'm afraid our supplies are somewhat limited since the war over the Scullery began."

            "The war over the Scullery," Michael repeated.

            "Quite," said the butler. "The three Masters of Feast had a falling out after the old Master Arches' passing. I've tried to mediate, but I'm afraid I'm not much liked. Dignity and camaraderie are not always close companions."

Michael nodded his head, recognizing that the small man DID have quite a lot of dignity, and not much space in that tiny body to keep it. He supposed a person could squeeze a bit more dignity into bat wings, if he did it right--and apparently the butler knew how to do it right.

            "I expect," said the butler, "that conquering the Scullery will be among your first orders of business. But for now," he gestured to the door, "shall we?"

            "Of course," said Michael, leaving his suitcase and tucking his thumbs under the straps of his backpack. "But...what do I call you? I mean, are you a..."

            "Butler? Yes. I am the butler of Daimon Home. And, unfortunately for the moment, the only of your manservants. I am Master Silver, but you may call me Silver."

            They settled in what Master Silver informed Michael was his 'pantry.' Michael didn't see food anywhere, or even shelves for food, so he assumed that 'pantry' was an old word for 'room where the butler sits in very small chairs designed for people with bat wings.'

            Not that the butler was sitting at the moment. He was opening a normal-sized cupboard. Then he was looking up at shelves stuffed with packaged snack food.

            "What would you prefer, young Master? Oatmeal cookies? Peanut butter filled crackers? Pretzel sticks and cheese, perhaps. Oh, hang on just a moment."

            He fluttered his wings and lifted up to about Michael's head height. "It seems I have a bag of corn chips as well, though I thought the grumbles had made off with the last of those ages ago. They do enjoy corn chips, and they're such a rare thing these days." Master Silver settled back to the ground and turned to face Michael.

            The boy sat in the one human-sized chair in the room. Hard. "Oatmeal cookies please," he said.

            "Very good, Master," said the butler. He turned, withdrew a package from the lowest shelf--and yes, he 'withdrew' it; it was much too dignified to qualify as a 'pull'--opened one end of the ridiculously large package with his tiny hands, and placed the entire thing on a silver tray that Michael hadn't noticed before. It was on a napkin, on a silver tray, all at least the size of Master Silver's head. It was absurd. It wanted to be funny. Michael didn't dare laugh.

            "Here you are, Master," said Silver. "Would you care for something to drink as well? I'm afraid all I have to offer you is bottled water. I attempted to preserve some cranberry juice, one of the old Master's favorites, but in the chaos of the last month I have had much to do and only one pair of wings to do it with. I hope you'll forgive me."

            "Water's fine," said Michael, taking the tray and settling it in his lap.

            "Very good," said Silver, and he left back into the hallway.

            Michael looked around. The room looked a bit like his grandpa's study--his Grandpa Midwinter, not Grandpa Arches--but in miniature.  Same leather furniture, same kind of hard-wood desk, same wooden paneling on the walls, just all of it sized for the diminutive butler. And with slots for wings. There was no bed, so he assumed that the small door in the back wall led to Master Silver's bedroom. That is, if the butler slept here. Michael was beginning to realize he had no idea how a manor worked. He didn't even know what a scullery was, though apparently it was something quite important.

            "Here we are," said Silver, returning through the hall door. "Pure, mountain spring-water, bottled by the purified imps of the Alps. Or so the packaging says, though I have had my doubts."

            Michael supposed he should have expected it, but he was surprised that, instead of handing him a bottle, the butler placed yet another silver tray on a small table next to Michael's chair. On it was a cut-glass tumbler and an opened bottle of water, half of the bottle already poured into the glass. Michael looked at the label on the bottle: Imp Alp Winter Water.

            "Thank you," he said in a rather small voice.

            "Of course, sir. I'm embarrassed to even ask, young Master, but would you mind if I sat? I normally abhor such informality, but I'm not as young as I used to be and my wings and my feet tire more easily than they should."

            "Yes," said Michael. "Please. Absolutely. Sit. I've never had a butler before, so I didn't even know you weren't supposed to. Are you not supposed to?"

            "Generally one stands while serving," said Master Silver. "The old Master Archer allowed me perhaps more familiarities than were proper, and so I apologize in advance if I cause offense through some unfortunate lapse."

            "Don't even worry about it," said Michael. "Whatever Great-Grandpa had you do is fine with me, I'm sure. I'm not used to being served. If I ask Mom for some water, she asks me if my arms are painted on."

            Silver blinked at him.

            "It's a joke," said Michael. "Because painted arms would be useless. And I couldn't get any water."

            "Aha," said the butler. "And thus she expresses her desire for you to obtain your own water. That is rather clever, though I would never presume to treat you with THAT level of familiarity."

            "No," said Michael. "That's not...um...thanks for the water. And please, sit down."

            "Thank you," said Silver, and he sat, carefully folding his wings through the slots in the back of his leather armchair. He settled down with a small sigh, and Michael could see him flexing his feet in his shoes. They really were highly polished shoes. He could even see the lights reflecting off them.

            "Lights," he said, looking up. There were ceiling lights. Electric bulbs and everything.

            "Is there something the matter with the lights?" asked Silver with some concern.

            "No. They're fine. In fact, the fixtures are pretty fancy. I just didn't know if you'd have lights or not. I expected...I don't know...gas lamps, or something. Candles, maybe."

            "Old Master Archer made certain that the North Wing was fully renovated. We have excellent wiring, plumbing, and even internet, though I'm afraid it's down at the moment. The wireless router needs to be reset, and that is in the old Master's Study."

            "Can't we go to the study?" asked Michael.

            "The Study? Oh no, I'm afraid not. It is on the other side of the kitchens, near to the West Wing. Very dangerous region of the manor at the moment, though I expect you're here to do something about that. Is it presumptuous of me to ask about your plans for retaking Daimon Home?"

            Michael realized his mouth was open. "Retaking?" he said, swallowing. "I just got here--that is, I'm not sure--"

            "Of course," said Master Silver. "I understand. You'll want to rest before beginning anything. A long trip such as that must have tired you. I'm afraid I only have the room next door to offer you. It isn't the master bedroom, but the master bedroom is, unfortunately--"

            "On the other side of the kitchens?" asked Michael.

            "Exactly, sir."

            "Yeah," said Michael, looking down at the cookie that he still hadn't taken a bite of. "Why don't you show me my room. If that's okay with you."

            "Young Master, this is YOUR home. You certainly don't need to ask MY permission."

Lord of the Manor -- Section 1

[Here it is. The new book. My goal is 3,000 words each day, or more if I can swing it, and to have the story substantially done before we move back to Utah. This is going to be a real effort, but! But. But...I don't really have a 'but' to go with that statement. It's just going to be a real effort. Otherwise known as 'hard.'

[So prayers are always appreciated. And enthusiasm. I'm planning this as the first book of three, or so. Yes, I am finally summoning the courage to plan a trilogy/quartet/heptuplet, even before I know if any publisher wants the thing. I want to write it. That's enough. So there.

[Enjoy. And if I accidentally type 'Perry' instead of 'Michael,' please forgive me. And then point it out with a minimum of laughter.]

            "You don't have to do this, Michael," said his mother. "Just because Great-Grandfather left the place to you, doesn't mean you have to take it over right NOW."

            "I'm already here, Mom," said Michael, talking into his cell phone.

            "Yes, but you can come back. If they could afford to have a taxi take you all the way there from the airport, they can afford to send you right back."

            "Let it go, Mary," said Michael's dad, also in on the phonecall. "He'll be fine. He's fifteen, they have staff there to take care of everything, and it's no more dangerous than summer camp. Actually, considering my experiences at camp, I'd say Michael is much better off at a posh manor than he is in the middle of a nest of rabbid teenagers."

            "And," said Michael, "I'm already here. I'll be fine, Mom."

            "You don't sound entirely certain," said his mom. "Are you certain? Absolutely certain?"

            Michael firmed up his voice. "I'm certain. I've got to go, Mom. The butler wants to show me to my room."

            "Of course," she said. "I don't mean to worry, but you know that I will, so you'll call regularly? And email? Text message?"

            "I'll even post my status online as 'just fine.' I've got to go, Mom."

            "Have fun, Mike," said his dad. "Honestly, I'm a little jealous. I never got to see Granddad's manor, so I hope you'll let us come visit soon."

            "Of course, Dad. Just not right now. I want to get to know everyone first."

            "No problem. Call us when you're settled, Mike."

            "Yes, call," said his mom.

            "Love you," said Michael, and he hung up. He looked at the metal plaque, cemented to the stone pillar next to the gate: Daimon Home. It was surrounded by ivy, barely visible. The gate to the manor's drive was rusted and bent, the road overgrown with any number of large and ominous trees. They were the sort of trees that looked down on you menacingly, much like high schoolers had looked down at Michael for years, ever since he started high school at age twelve. You're an oddity, said the trees, but we won't crush you. Yet. That was the kind of trees they were.

            Yes, Michael had lied to his mother, and he still wasn't sure why. There was no butler--at least not so far--no room, not even a manor house, as far as Michael could see.     There was a wall, a rusted gate, ivy, and trees with attitude.

            And a name on the wall. Daimon Home.

            Michael reached out, hesitated, then shoved on the middle of the gate. With a brief squeek, the two haves swung inward and open, pushing back overgrown underbrush with their metal teeth. The road between the trees was covered in white gravel, but it was all dark under the shadow of leaves.

            "Wow," said Michael, to himself. "I wanted an adventure. So far, the gate is living up to expectations."

            He adjusted his backpack on his shoulders, grabbed the handle of his rolling suitcase, and waked through the gate to Daimon Home.

            Pulling a suitcase over gravel was no longer on Michael's list of favorite activities. Actually, it had never occurred to Michael to MAKE a list of favorite activities, but if he had, and if, at one point he had included 'pulling a suitcase over gravel' on that list, it would definitely have been off that list after three minutes of walking along the manor's drive.

            The drive seemed never ending. It was trees, trees, and trees, still looking down at him as if he were insignificant, with--as far as he could see--more trees behind the other trees, all of them waiting for a chance to watch him struggle along with his suitcase. The attorney had said he wouldn't need books, but Michael couldn't help it. He had to bring at least ten, just for emergencies. Couldn't trust the manor library to have all the books he was reading.

            But now, lifting his suitcase up to carry it three inches above the treacherous gravel, Michael was regretting bringing the COMPLETE works of Shakespeare. Just bringing King Lear to read for school would have been enough, and besides, surely a 'manor' would have Shakespeare inside SOMEWHERE. It was probably a rule laid down by the International Association for Places Called 'Manors.'

            It would have been easier if he were taller, but Michael wasn't going there. It was bad enough being younger than everyone in high school, but he had to add to that being shorter than everyone. Even at fifteen he still had to look UP to see the five foot mark on the doctor's office wall. He didn't have to look up MUCH, but still, up is up, and he had to look it. Short. Why didn't they make suitcases shorter? Or give them off-road suspension. Stupid gravel.

            Michael was so preoccupied with his suitcase that it took him a few steps to realize that he was out of the trees. All around him was grass. It looked as if it had been carefully kept grass once, like the fields you see in magazines about rich people's houses. Michael looked around and, sure enough, scattered across the massive--MASSIVE--lawn were strategically placed trees, spreading out their low, immense branches to create canopies of shade. There was even a peacock on one of the branches, its feathers drooping toward the ground. Then it pooped.

            "Nice," said Michael. "What else have we got?"

            He looked around at the rest of the yard. Yard? It wasn't a yard. It was a park, or maybe a small wilderness area. The manor grounds were stretched across a shallow bowl--a very LARGE shallow bowl--with trees and grass and over there was a garden of some sort, and maybe a hedge maze, though the hedges looked in need of serious attention, and even a small lake toward what Michael guessed was the south. A stream cut into the bowl on the far side from Michael and made its way past the manor to the lake, then out again in some kind of ravine. It was all overgrown and...ratty. Tattered, like someone had simply forgotten to care for the place.

            The place. Michael's eyes went back to the manor house, and his brain finally caught up with what he was seeing. If the manor grounds were miles across--and they looked it--then that meant that the house in the middle was HUGE. Massive. Immense. Ponderously large. Leviathan-like in its proportions. Big.

            "Wow," said Michael. "Thanks, Great-Grandpa. I think."

            It was another half-hour before Michael was close enough to get a really good look at the manor house. Even as overgrown as the lawn was, he discovered it was easier to pull his suitcase through the grass than over the gravel. He still took a good, long break when he reached what he guessed was the half-way point. He made quick work of his two sandwiches and all of his water, hoping that more food wasn't far off. He couldn't tell, though, if anyone were actually at the manor. No cars, no movement, nothing. No gardeners at work that he could see, not that he expected that from how the grounds looked. The whole place seemed empty, the way a school was empty during the summer. Nothing going on, and no one around to care if there was.

            Sitting on his suitcase, Michael felt a twinge of aprehension. What if there really were nobody there? He pulled out his cell phone to double check and was reassured by the four bars of signal. Worst comes to worst, he could call 911 and have cops pull him out of there. Or at least he could order pizza. He looked down in his backpack, and yes, he'd remembered to grab the flier from the pizza place back in town. He hoped they'd come all the way out here, at least if he promised a heavy tip and not to hold them to their thirty-minute delivery promise.

            Pizza. Actually, the thought made his stomach churn, even full with sandwiches. What was he doing here?

            Finally he stood up, stuffed his garbage and water bottle into his backpack, and heaved it all back onto his shoulders. With a resentful glare he muscled his suitcase back onto its wheels and faced the manor house.

            "Onward," he said.

            "Jane Austen," said Michael to himself. "That's where I've seen a place like this. Jane Austen movies." He figured it hadn't occurred to him, because he'd never expected to see a manor house from the English countryside in the middle of Wisconsin.

            Up close, the building looked even shabbier than from a distance. The plaster-facing on the walls was cracked and faded--unless it was supposed to be that color--and the gargoyles on the roof looked more droopy than fierce (though it was pretty cool that there were gargoyles at all). Some of the windows were cracked, one was even boarded up, but they were all dirty. All of them. All seven-million of them.

            All right, seven-million was probably an exaggeration, but Michael was starting to feel intimidated. The closer he got to the front doors, the more the manor house seemed to stretch out to either side of him. Exactly how rich had his great-grandfather been? Also...how much of that had Michael inherited? He hoped it was enough to keep this place running, though from the looks of things, it probably wouldn't be.

            Michael still wasn't sure why his great-grandfather had picked HIM. It's all yours, the lawyer had said. The manor house, the grounds, and the operating budget to keep the place running. You just have to visit this summer to finalize ownership.

            "But why does he have to go alone?" his mother had asked. Several times. And then several more.

            The lawyer had just shrugged, his eyes like hot coals. "It's in the will, madam." He was a senior partner from the law firm of Umbrage, Drought, Canker, and Crass, PLC. Michael had thought it was a pretty cool name at the time. Now, looking at the dingy (but large) front doors, Michael thought the name seemed rather...ominous. Who picks a law firm that sounds like a disaster? His great-grandfather, apparently.

            "Do I knock on my own front door, or do I just go in?" What finally decided it was the knocker: a twisted, wrought-iron face, with an iron ring trapped under the top teeth and designed to swing down and strike the long, really long, really really long tongue. It was too cool to pass up. Michael reached up to grab the ring, cursed that everything in the world was designed for tall people, and gave it a swing.

            HE COMES, boomed the knocker. Michael stepped back, startled. No, the knocker hadn't said anything. It was just a big boom from metal on a large door. No words at all. That was it. But to make sure, he stepped forward, lifted up the ring of the knocker, and let it go.

            HE COMES, it boomed again. It wasn't words--it really was just an big knock on a big door--but at the same time it WAS words. He comes. It echoed through the house and back across the grounds, bouncing through the valley. He comes.

            "That was weird," said Michael.

            And the door opened.

            The small door, that is. A small door that was built into the middle of the left half of the larger doors. Michael waited expectantly. He waited more, and he waited even more expectantly.

            Nothing happened.

            "Hello?" he called.

            No answer.

            "I'm Michael Arches."

            Even more of no answer.

            "I think...I'm supposed to own this place."

            Even less answer than before.

            "Huh," said Michael.

            "Why me?" he'd asked the attorney. "Why did Great-Grandfather leave it all to me?"

            "I assumed you would know," said Mr. Canker. "If not, I don't know if I can help you."

            "Attorney-client privilege?" asked my father.

            Mr. Canker cocked one eyebrow. "There's simply nothing about it in the will. I suppose I might be able to speculate, but I hardly knew the old Master Arches."

            "That's more than I knew him," said Dad. "Why not speculate just a little."

            The attorney had smiled. It wasn't an evil smile, but it wasn't exactly a nice smile, either. It was a wild smile, like you might expect to see from a tiger that was still making up its mind about whether you'd be tasty or not.

            "I expect there is something for the young Master Arches to do," he said.

            Michael pushed the door open even further, and the first thing he noticed was the dust. Dust and dark and a bit more dust with a side helping of dust. What light made it through the door and into the manor house seemed to be eaten up by all the dust until he could hardly see five feet inside. A breeze blew up behind him and into the house, stirring up some of the dust. There was a lot of dust.

            Why had his great-grandfather let the place go so much? He'd only died last month. Surely the staff would take care of the place better than this--assuming there was a staff. Mr. Canker had said there would be, and he didn't seem like the sort of person who would lie. Chew you up and spit out the bones, sure, but lie? Why would he bother? Tigers don't have to lie to their dinner.

            Michael left his suitcase outside the door and stepped in, leaving a large crater in the dust like Neil Armstrong stepping onto the surface of the moon. Or was it Buzz Aldrin? He'd double-check it on his laptop, assuming the place had internet. Assuming it had electricity.

            Michael blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. "Hello?" he called again, hoping his 'hello' just hadn't taken the first time. Apparently the second 'hello' didn't take either, because there was no answer.

            He peered into the darkness and started to make out the dimensions of the room he was in. Actually, it was more of a hall than a room. A tall, wide, loooooong hall. Some light creeped into the room through the smudged windows, hesitant light, as if it weren't sure it really belonged. Seemed there were chairs along the walls, spaced out between large, rectangular frames that probably held paintings, though the light coming into the room wasn't brave enough to really show much of anything. The rest of the room beyond the first thirty feet was lost to mystery.

            And a bit of dread. Michael shifted his feet. He didn't feel comfortable. He felt distinctly NOT comfortable. He drummed his fingers against the side of his legs. He looked back outside, and the door showed no sign of closing behind him with an ominous bang, so he looked back at the hall. The hall felt like a haunted house he'd visited last October, but not like it at all. Nothing frightening or gross or shaped like a pumpkin in this hall, but it had the same sense of waiting for something really creepy to happen. No, the hall was worse, because at the haunted house he'd been sure that everything was fake.

Here, standing alone in the hall, Michael wasn't so sure.

            "Maybe there's another entrance," he said.

            Michael walked along the manor house to the north. There was a path around the building that, thankfully, was lined with paving stones instead of that darn gravel. Sure, the wheels on his suitcase caught in the cracks at first, but it wasn't too long before he got the hang of it and could walk almost normally.

            The path was lined with decorative things. Shrubs, flowers gone wild, low hedges. Even potted plants cut into strange shapes. That one looked a bit like a small man with his hands on fire. And that one looked like a man with his face falling off. And that other one looked like a cloud.

            Michael checked his cell phone again. He was still getting reception, which was a relief. The emptiness of the whole place was starting to crawl up the back of his neck and make his hair stand on end. He could always call home. Flee. Go back. It's not like he NEEDED his own manor--though the idea was really, really cool. But it probably came with all sorts of responsibility to go along with anything that would be fun about it. There would probably be social responsibilities, too, like people expecting him to throw parties or have balls or something. Did people still have balls? Michael tried to imagine himself in a tuxedo, but in his head the tux kept coming out oversized and he kept coming out undersized, a small boy drowning in his daddy's suit. Besides, he didn't know how to tie a bowtie.

            He finally made it to the corner of the building, turned to start walking again, and stopped. Part way down the north face of the house, the windows were clean. Clear glass. Happy glass. The plaster still needed repair, but who was Michael to argue with clean windows? Clean windows meant someone was there, and that was a good thing. Now to find a door.

            Mr. Canker had looked down at his notes. "The will states that the old Master Arches has left information for the young Master Arches in the study in the North Wing."

            "Wow," said Dad. "More than one wing."

            "Apparently the building is constructed as a large square," said the lawyer, "with each face of the building referred to by its cardinal direction. Master Arches seemed to favor the North Wing for his personal habitation. Or so my notes tell me."

            "How many rooms does it have?" asked Mom.

            "I believe it varies," answered Mr. Canker.

            "Always a new remodeling project, I suppose," said Dad. "Inscrutable are the ways of the rich and famous. Speaking of which, Mike doesn't get access to all the money right away, does he?"

            "No, Mr. Arches. The young Master Arches will have a living allowance, but the majority of the funds will only be available when he reaches the age of eighteen. The staff is able to draw on operating expenses as needed."

            "Good," said Mom. "Too much money can ruin a person. You know that, Michael?"

            "We don't even know how much it is, Mom."

            "True," said Dad. "How much is he inheriting, Mr. Canker?"

            "I'm afraid I can't say," answered the lawyer.

            "You don't know, or you can't say?"

            "I'm afraid I can't say."

            Michael found a normal sized door at the north-east corner of the manor house. It looked worn, but clean. Well-used and comfortable, almost the complete opposite of the imposing and abandoned doors to the immense hall. There were small, potted trees to either side and a happy sort of stained-glass window to the side. While the main entrance had felt forbidding, this door felt welcoming. Michael was knocking on the door almost before he realized it.

            The door opened.

            "Again?" said Michael. There was no one there.

            "I'm sorry," said a voice from around Michael's knees. "Again what?"

The City of Dreams -- Part 37 (The End)

[Or is it the beginning?]

[[Sorry. Couldn't resist.]]

I woke up with my alarm the next morning. I felt about as energetic as a day-old pancake, but I'd expected that. I rolled out of bed anyway. That was the kind of day it was going to be: do it anyway.

            By the time I'd showered and made it down to the kitchen, Mom was the only one awake. She stared at me.

            "Hey," I said.

            "Hey," she said.

            I pulled cereal out of the cupboard and grabbed a bowl.

            "There something going on today?" asked Mom.

            I shrugged. "Not really."

            "You DO know what time it is?"

            I looked at the clock. "Yeah."

            "You also know that you could still be sleeping?"

            My body seconded the question, but I ignored it. "Yes, I know that." I poured out the cereal and went to the fridge for milk.

            "Okay then," said Mom, and she went back to reading the newspaper.

            Breakfast went down fast. I never have too much room in my stomach in the morning. It's like my digestive tract has to have a warning before it can really get warmed up. Unfortunately, that usually means I end up hungry sometime in the middle of calculus, but I had a plan for that. After sticking my dishes in the dishwasher, I made myself an extra peanut butter sandwich. Pretty daring, I know, but I was in a daring mood.

            "You going someplace?" asked Mom as I put my lunch in my backpack.

            "School."

            "You walking?"

            "Yeah."

            "Why?"

            "People keep telling me I need exercise. And I hate running."

            "So you're walking to school."

            "Yeah," I said. I pulled on my backpack. "Do you know how far it actually is to school?"

            "A little over two miles, I think," said Mom, "though it might be more."

            "Could you have Tamara keep an eye out for me, in case I don't make it there as fast as I planned?"

            "No problem," said Mom. "Have a nice walk."

            "Thanks," I said.

            I walked out the door. The morning air was cold, but with my fleece jacket all I needed was my mittens. And maybe a scarf, but I didn't have a scarf. I'd find one for tomorrow.

            "You don't look terrible," said Mike in calculus.

            "Stop it," I said. "You're making me blush."

            "No, really," said Mike. "You look better. Something happen?"

            "Not yet," I said, sneaking a bite of my spare sandwich. "But it will."

            Brie found me on the way to English. We bumped shoulders.

            "How are you feeling?" she asked.

            "Like crap," I admitted.

            "Really? You don't look it."

            I shrugged. "I figure it will come and go. It always does. But I feel like I've got a reason to be awake now. I think that makes a difference."

            "Is it me?" asked Brie, batting her eyelashes and pouting her lips.

            I laughed. "Yes," I said. "It is. At least part of it."

            "Oh," said Brie. She stopped walking. I stopped and looked at her. She blinked several times. "Why did you say that?" she asked.

            "Because I meant it."

            "You idiot. I need a Kleenex. What a stupid day to wear makeup."

            I pulled a Kleenex out of my pocket, handed it to her, and looked someplace else. She finished, and we walked the rest of the way to English.

            "What's this?" asked Sook at lunch.

            "They're called 'Uno cards,'" I said, enunciating slowly and clearly. "Sometimes used by lesser humans for recreational interaction. In other words, they play 'games' with them."

            "Thank you, Mr. Obvious," said Sook. "I was wondering why YOU had them?"

            "I thought we could play. You want to shuffle, Brie?"

            Sook still looked stunned. "Seriously?"

            "I'm pretty sure he's serious," said Mike. "He's going crazy today. His sister even said he walked to school."

            "Which sister said that?" I asked.

            "Tamara."

            "When did you talk to her?"

            "Before calculus. She wanted me to keep an eye on you, make sure you weren't sick or something."

            "I'm not sick. Well, I am, but I'm trying to get better."

            "So you're not sick like a cold," said Sook, "you're just nuts."

            "Exactly. All kinds of nuts. Mixed nuts, cashew halves, salted peanuts, Brazil nuts--which, technically aren't a nut, I think. I'll have to look that up again."

            "You looked it up BEFORE?" asked Sook.

            "Sure. There's lots you don't know about me, Sook. I am a man of mystery."

            "You are a man of caffeine. What happened to you? Why are you laughing, Brie?"

            Brie just shook her head and dealt the cards, seven to each of us. I'd heard about rules for playing 'Killer Uno.' Maybe we'd have to try that tomorrow. There were a lot of things in line for trying out. I hoped I’d have enough tomorrows waiting.

            "You want me to come over?" asked Brie. I'd hurried fast enough to catch her at her locker after seventh period. Then I'd invited her.

            "Yes," I said.

            "Today?"

            "If your parents wouldn't mind."

            "Would we be the only people there?"

            "No, Tamara would be there. Cindy has track or something, but Dad gets home around four, and then we'd all be there for dinner at five. If you wanted to stay."

            Brie was smiling at me. "Let me call my mom."

            Three minutes later and we were walking out to Tamara's car.

            "You're seriously inviting me over to your house," laughed Brie.

            "Why are you laughing?"

            "I don't know," she said. "I feel all mixed up. I feel like I'm dreaming."

            "That would sound really cheesy," I said, "if I didn't know exactly what you meant."

            She bumped into my shoulder again, and then we were holding hands. I smiled at her, but I guess it wasn't quite the happy smile I wanted. She leaned back a little and looked at me carefully.

            "How do you feel?" she asked.

            "Terrified," I said. "Also, like crap. Also, like running away."

            Brie squeezed my hand tighter.

            "How are you going to feel tomorrow?" she asked.

            I squeezed her hand back.

            "Better," I said.

The City of Dreams -- Part 36

I decided to let everyone else fix the stage. I went down to our one audience member. She was clapping, and a smile never hurts--at least not a smile like that. I wanted to ask her if she had liked it, but that would have sounded way too eager, so I decided not to do that.

            “Did you like it?” I asked.

            “It was terrible,” she said, which made my stomach drop, but she was still smiling, which made my heart beat in my ears, “but terrible in a good way. Did you really write that?”

            “Mrs. Humphrey wrote the bits that sounded wise, but I wrote the rest. Sort of. Some of the rest I wrote during the day--but I was writing a different play, and then this play showed up in the nighttime, and then we worked on it and--yeah, I wrote it. And you liked it?”

            “Didn’t I just tell you?”

            “You said it was terrible.”

            “Okay, fine. Yes, I liked it.” Her face got more serious. “It was a very nice apology, Perry. Thank you.”

            I shrugged. “It seemed like just saying I was sorry wouldn’t be enough. I know I wasn’t much of a friend during the day, and I still don’t think I’ll be very good, but I want to try.”

            Then something happened that was a surprise. From the look on Brie’s face, it wasn’t just a surprise for me, but I was definitely among the surprised. I was maybe chief of the Surprised Tribe, because looking at her right then, something inside me opened up just a crack. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it might have been the closet where I used to keep the ocean, and it started to rush out all at once.

            “I want to try, because I like you. I think you’re funny and crazy and you make me do insane things and I love it, because the insane things are still nice and they make me happy, and you’re beautiful and I was a total idiot to not notice you before. I’m so glad you found me here in the City, because I think without you I’d still be stuck, and I’m still kind of stuck, but I’m trying. I’m trying, and I wanted to tell you that now, because I don’t know what I’ll feel like when I wake up, but I’ll still be trying, and I hope you’ll be patient with me, because I’m basically an idiot, but I like you, and now I’m repeating myself--”

            Brie hugged me, and I shut up. She rested her head against my shoulder, and my toes and fingers tingled. Nerve damage, probably.

            “Thanks for the play, Perry. I like you, too.”

            I decided I was happy with this kind of nerve damage. I put my arms around her gently.

            “I do hate to interrupt,” said Mr. Punctilious, “but I would like my chance to say goodbye before anyone decides to be so rude as to wake up.”

            Brie pulled back and my arms and chest felt empty.

            “Goodbye?” she asked.

            “Yes, Brie. Now that you’re done coming to the City, I wanted to be sure to get a proper hug before you go.”

            “What do you mean, ‘done?’” I asked.

            Mrs. Humphrey and Father Thomas stepped down off the stage to join us.

            “You don’t have a mirror, Mr. Crows,” said Mrs. Humphrey, “but anyone looking at you right now can see that you’re done here. You don’t need to come back, at least not for a while.”

            Father Thomas smiled and nodded. “I’m happy for you, Perry. You and your friend.”

            “But hang on,” I said. “I didn’t mean to--this isn’t--this--”

            “Sucks,” said Brie. “This sucks.”

            “Yes,” agreed Mr. Punctilious. “It does. And I will miss you both more than you can imagine right now, which is why I’ve decided something. What you said before got to me, Perry.”

            I blinked at him. “Did I say something?”

            “Yes. Probably shouldn’t try to explain things to my family, but you can tell them you’re a friend of mine from the library, and you’d like to see me. I’m sure my wife will let you. She has a soft spot for polite teenagers.”

            “What are you saying?” asked Brie.

            “Jerome and Marjorie Brixton. We’re the only Brixtons in the phonebook, so far as I know.” Mr. Punctilious took a deep breath and let it out. “I’d like you to come see me. It would be a relief to me to know that someone knows me as I am now, and not as a an insensate lump on an adjustable bed.” He sniffed. “And I think it might mean something to my wife to know that I’m remembered.”

            “Jerome and Marjorie Brixton,” I repeated.

            “Of course we’ll come see you,” said Brie. We looked at Father Thomas and Mrs. Humphrey.

            “Oh, please,” said Mrs. Humphrey. “How hard can it be to find a priest? And Patricia M. Humphrey is too distinct to be mistaken for anyone else. Besides, everyone else is a ‘Humphries.’ I, however, am singular.” Her eyebrows lifted behind her glasses and one of us smiled. It wasn’t her.

            “We’ll come find you, too,” I said.

            “If you have the time,” said Father Thomas, smiling.

            “You’d better,” said Mrs. Humphrey.

            Brie and I looked at each other.

            “I guess we should say goodbye to Zoli and Mrs. Absinthe, too,” said Brie. “And to Pork Chop.”

            “Right,” I said, then I looked over my shoulder. “Do you hear something buzzing?”

            Brie looked at me sharply. “Do you turn your alarm off on the weekend?” she asked.

            “Of course--crap! I forgot!”

            “Call me!” she said. “No! Dang it. We’re going to visit my grandmother all weekend. Do you have my cell phone num--”

            I swatted my alarm clock.  Hard.

            Even with that abrupt goodbye, Saturday was like a Dr. Seuss story. I was bouncing off the wall, I was rolling like a ball, I was trying to read a book, I was making a feeble attempt at being an amateur cook.

            Okay, that wasn’t a very good version of a Dr. Seuss story, but it wasn’t a very good attempt at cooking either—who knew you could mess up pancakes? I really didn’t care. The play had worked. I had apologized.

            Mom decided to put my energy to good use. After I mowed the lawn in crisp air and folded all the towels, I felt slightly calmer. But still happy.

            Very, very happy. It was a new feeling for being awake.

            “You know tomorrow’s going to be rough,” said Not.

            “What am I doing here?” I asked. We were on the same bench where we had first met, the hill and the City stretched out below us. “I thought I’d be done with the City.”

            “You probably are,” said my dream, “but I missed you, so thanks for coming back.”

            “Anytime,” I said.

            “Really?”

            “How should I know? I don’t understand how I got here in the first place.”

            “Good point,” said Not. “Look, I don’t want to keep you long. You do need your sleep, but I wanted to warn you that tomorrow is going to be rough.”

            “I don’t want to hear that,” I said. “And how do you know, anyway?”

            “It just will be. Today you’re at the top of the world, tomorrow you’ll be fifty feet down, under a pile of rocks, popped tires, old diapers, and rejected beet greens.”

            I could almost taste something rotten in my mouth. “Sounds…fun.”

            “I don’t mean to be a wet blanket—I am a dream, and we tend to be pretty upbeat—but I figured you could use a warning.”

            “But why? Why will I feel that way? Today was so good. Last night was awesome!”

            “And your body and mind are worn out. You’re going to crash, Perry.”

            I looked up at the moon above me, immense and silver.

            “That sucks,” I said.

            “Yeah.”

            I looked back down. Glow-in-the-dark flowers wandered around on the face of the hill below us. A few glanced up at me, hopefully, but I guess my face didn’t offer them much hope, and they wandered off to find food somewhere else.

            “It won’t last, though,” said Not. “It’ll get better.”

            “Will it?”

            “See how you feel Monday morning. Well, if not Monday, then Tuesday. Or at least by Wednesday.”

            “Right.” I breathed in and out. “I’m going to miss you, Not.”

            “Maybe,” said my dream. “But not for very long, I think.”

            He was right about Sunday.

            When I wasn’t at church, I stayed in bed and stared at the wall. Dad sat down next to me for a while, but he didn’t say anything. It seemed like he understood.

            That night I slept without dreaming.

The City of Dreams -- Part 35

[First draft is done. Here come the last few sections. Typing one-handed with a baby in the other. (The lengths I go to for you all....)]

Scene 3

Lights come up, showing only the sign 'Regrettable Misunderstandings.' Lights expand to show an old woman in a floral shirt, looking down at her script through oversized glasses.

Boy walks onto the stage, sets down his stool, and sits.

OLD WOMAN

You look upset, young man. Can I help you?

BOY

I'm looking for someone.

OLD WOMAN

Who's that?

BOY

Nobody.

OLD WOMAN

In that case, finding him could be quite a challenge.

BOY

I'm SUPPOSED to be looking for my friend, Punctual Fitzgibbons, but I'm not going to find him.

OLD WOMAN

Why not?

BOY

He's not real.

OLD WOMAN

And why are you 'supposed' to be looking for a friend that isn't real?

BOY

Because my parents think he IS real.

OLD WOMAN

How did that happen?

BOY

I didn't mean for it to work out this way. I made up Punctual Fitzgibbons because--well, I just did, and I never meant for my parents to actually believe in him, but they decided they wanted to meet him, and I said something about misunderstanding, and they thought I meant THIS place, and how was I supposed to know there was actually a city called Misunderstanding?

OLD WOMAN

And now you're here.

BOY

Yes.

OLD WOMAN

And you haven't told your parents?

BOY

No.

OLD WOMAN

That's regrettable. What are you going to do about it?

BOY

I don't know. I think I should tell them.

OLD WOMAN

Seems wise.

BOY

But I could let it all go, too. I wouldn't HAVE to tell them. We could go home, and I could make something up. I could say he got sick, or had an accident--armadillos on the road. Armadillos do get on the road, don't they?

OLD WOMAN

I believe so, but I haven't heard about it happening around Misunderstanding.

BOY

Still, armadillos are an option.

OLD WOMAN

Armadillos are always an option.

The Boy and the Old Woman sit, looking at each other.

BOY

Not a very good option, though.

OLD WOMAN

I have to agree. Why don't you tell me more about your friend?

BOY

Punctual Fitzgibbons? He's not my friend. I mean, he is, but he's not real.

OLD WOMAN

I did understand that much. But tell me, why did you make him up? With the exception of schizophrenics and writers, most people lose their imaginary friends by the age of twelve. Surely you had a good reason for needing this Fitzgibbons.

BOY

He's perfect.

OLD WOMAN

Aha.

BOY

He's nice, and funny. He'll probably grow up to coach basketball teams for underprivileged youth. He has no problem flossing his teeth every night. He likes being with people, instead of crossing the street to avoid someone because he can't remember her name. And he's always on time.

OLD WOMAN

I see. Are you always on time?

BOY

Never.

OLD WOMAN

Interesting. Flossing?

BOY

Hate it.

OLD WOMAN

I'm starting to see a pattern here. And you talk about Punctual Fitzgibbons?

BOY

When I think about him, it's like I'm doing all the things he does. It's like I'm....

Old Woman waits for him to finish.

BOY

It's like I'm the person I want to be.

OLD WOMAN

Punctual Fitzgibbons sounds too good to be true.

BOY

                        (laughing)

At least he was late today. Finally, Punctual Fitzgibbons has a flaw.

OLD WOMAN

That, and the fact that he doesn't exist, which is possibly more of a problem for him than for you, though it is at least an inconvenience for you at the moment. What do you think you'll do?

BOY

Apologize. It's what you do when you're stupid.

OLD WOMAN

An excellent start, but I think there's more you can do, as well.

BOY

What do you mean?

OLD WOMAN

The stories you tell about Punctual Fitzgibbons might be useful.

Loud crash from offstage, followed by a shout from Pork Chop. Old Woman glances back, then looks back to her script.

OLD WOMAN

Try telling those same stories--

Another loud crash and the thumping of wooden feet.

OLD WOMAN

--but instead of Master Fitzgibbons, tell the stories about yourself.

Thumping gets louder and closer.

OLD WOMAN

                        (shouting over the noise)

See if you can't make those stories come true--oh, my!

The end table rushes onto the stage, followed closely by every other piece of furniture from backstage. The end table scampers behind the Boy and attempts to hide. Led by the armoire, the rest of the furniture advances menacingly.

BOY

I'll have to try that.

Pork Chop, dressed in black shirt and pants, steps onstage, trying to quietly nudge furniture back into the wings.

BOY

But first, an apology.

Round Man--who is clearly not the Narrator, because of the hat-- creeps up behind the end table. Feathered Woman and Camel Suit wait at the edge of the stage with a large furniture box.

OLD WOMAN

An apology is always a good place to start.

The armoire lunges and the Boy ducks, falling off his stool. Three chairs try to make an end run after the end table, but collide with Round Man. End table scampers between Feathered Woman and Camel Suit, escaping backstage before they can herd the hyperactive bit of wood into the box. Pork Chop and a mismatched dinette set charge after in hot pursuit.

Somewhere backstage comes another crash, and from over the stage comes a tumbling silk waterfall, pouring down endlessly onto the Boy.

Girl in the audience laughs, and the Boy smiles at her hopefully.

OLD WOMAN

No matter how badly it goes, an apology is always a good place to start.

Jaunty organ music.