PRÓLOGO
I know you have questions, and I know you want answers.
I am reticent, however, to give them. Not because I am withholding. But because I will not be able to satisfy your desires. Understand this: it is not my job to explain such things. Many of them remain a mystery, even to me, even now, all these years decades Passes later. And that is how it should be. You must be able to live with that, as I do. As I have. As I will. At least you have the privilege of your mortality. And yes, it is a privilege. A privilege that, like so many, can only be appreciated once it is gone.
But I am getting ahead of myself. As I often did. Do. Did.
So I will step back, so that I may take a great leap.
“Quien saltar quiere lejos, debe medir la distancia.”
There are many ways to tell this story, but I will let Reed begin. It is one of the many courtesies I have granted him.
CHAPTER 1RUNAWAY REED
DO NOT TRY TO FIND ME.
Was it too short? Too mysterious? Not mysterious enough?
The all caps were definitely extra.
Reed crumpled up and threw away yet another draft of his runaway note.
Midnight approached.
Get it together, Reed.
The minimalist approach wasn’t going to cut it. At the very least, he needed his mom and Rose to know he was okay. That he’d be home in a few months. It needed to serve “don’t worry about me” vibes.
Inspiration struck.
Reed grabbed his notebook and scribbled giddily. Like all good runaway notes, his would also contain a secret clue. To the other person he cared about most.
Dear Mom and Rose and everyone else,
Please don’t think this has anything to do with you. Please don’t think this has anything to do with what you did or didn’t do, because the last thing I want is to cause you any pain. It’s just that I’ve been called. To do something important. Something big. Something only I can do. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, but don’t worry. I got this, and it’ll all make sense after I’m there and back again in a few weeks. I see now that life would be so wonderful if we only knew what to do with it.
Sincerely, Reed de Vries
Reed folded the note in thirds and slipped it into an envelope. He made space on his crammed nightstand by rearranging half-full glasses of water, burned-down candles, and errant sheets of music that seemed to multiply of their own accord. Earlier that afternoon, he’d thought about cleaning the junkyard of discarded artifacts that was his room but decided against it. Nothing that would call attention to itself. He put PJ, his red-pawed teddy bear, on the nightstand and propped his runaway letter up against him.
He wasn’t taking much. He even left his wallet behind, as he’d been instructed. Mr. Shaw said he’d take care of everything. Even if he hadn’t accidentally shorted his cell phone (could it really have been only) a few hours ago, that was obviously a no go now. The only thing he was taking, in fact, was the Stone itself. He grabbed the black velvet drawstring pouch that until recently had held his lucky set of scarlet carnelian dice and slipped it into his pocket. The journey to the other side of his room, to the wall with windows, never felt so significant. He raised the blinds to the far window and slid it open. May’s humidity greeted him with a damp caress.
Now or never time.
He allowed himself one last look back: the crimson Maple Electric he’d gotten for his fifteenth birthday after his mom finally let him drop piano for guitar; the collection of reverb, delay, phaser, and flanger guitar pedals he’d painstakingly assembled; a menagerie of shells from a lifetime of beach-walking; pages and pages of sheet music; the backpack full of books he dutifully lugged to school every day; the closet door that didn’t completely close, hiding a lifetime of T-shirts, jeans, and flannels.
It wasn’t too late—he could still rip up the note, get back into bed, and pretend none of this had happened. If not for …
Reed slipped the black velvet pouch out of his cargo shorts pocket and tugged it open. The perfectly round ruby inside emitted a cherry glow, pulsing like a heart.
My precious, he chuckled to himself.
If not for that.
His calloused fingertips pressed the opening chords to “Adventure of a Lifetime” into his palm as if it were the fretted neck of his Maple Electric. Coldplay was more mainstream than Reed’s usual jams, but if the tune fit …
Dm–G–Am
What would happen when he turned his magic on?
He returned the pouch to his pocket as a gust of wind blew in from the window, planting kisses on the back of his neck. Reed turned his back to his room and slid the screen up. He climbed through the portal and balanced himself in the frame.
Then he jumped.
* * *
“To James de la Shaw, first and unacknowledged son of Charles II, deposed King of Great Britain and Ireland. As discussed in terms with Amalia Roe, daughter to the British Diplomat to Hindustan, and verified by Elizabeth Stuart, the Winter Queen, please find enclosed the Jewel Muraqqa. It is my hope that the de la Shaw House, as stewards of the Stone Bearers, will guide and mentor them with the utmost sincerity, respect, and kindness. I know, firsthand, theirs will not be an easy journey.
As per our compact, please find the agreed-upon shipments of cotton, silk, indigo dye, saltpeter, and tea, all tariff-free. We hope this is the beginning of a long and equitable relationship between the British East India Company and the Hindustan Empire.”
Princess Zeb-un-NissaDaughter of Aurangzeb, Third Son of Shah Jahan, King of the World
Pass One, 1653
CHAPTER 2PRESIDENT REED
Just two days ago, the idea of Reed abandoning his life and embarking on an epic adventure to save the world would have seemed as unlikely as farting glitter.
He was a normal kid, growing up in the very normal suburbs on the very normal shore of the unfortunately normal New Jersey. He had very normal hobbies, which ran the gamut from geeky (Magic: The Gathering, Dungeons & Dragons, really all things sci-fi/fantasy) to almost cool (playing lead guitar in his band Ragna Rock, which just started getting its first paid gigs of bar mitzvahs and sweet sixteens). He was a normal five-foot-seven and weighed a normal (okay—slightly scrawny) 121 pounds. He spent the spring of his junior year practicing parallel parking with his mother in the office building lot down the street and tormenting his younger sister with tales of what high school would hold for her next year.
The only thing unusual about Reed was his flame-red hair. Reed’s hair wasn’t the strawberry blond of a Norfolk terrier, the rust of weathered cast iron, or the auburn of autumn. It was unmistakably fire-engine, pigeon-blood, thermometer-mercury red.
Strangers assumed he dyed it, especially since his mom and sister were standard milk-chocolate brown brunettes. But with an awe she saved for very few things, his mom told anyone who asked that it had always been that way.
Until two days ago, Reed’s biggest concern was whether to run for Asbury Park High School Student Council president.
“You have to run!” Arno insisted as they walked to the boardwalk after school that cloudy Tuesday afternoon. “You’ve been talking about it since freshman year.”
“I don’t hafta do anything,” Reed responded playfully.
Reed and Arno arrived at their familiar boardwalk stretch, an expanse nestled between the mini golf course and the convention hall. It was thinly populated with a handful of preseason beachgoers braving the heavy clouds, thick and full like swollen organs.
“Sit or stroll?” Arno nodded to their bench, directly across from their hot dog vendor, Louise, with her classic Jersey Shore Italian accent.
“Stroll,” Reed decided.
“Let’s pro/con Student Council. That’s the best way to make decisions.” Arno was a few inches shorter and rounder than Reed, with an olive complexion. His hair was almost as dark as his eyes, which were decades older than his sixteen years. “Pro: if you were president, it would be great for the school.”
“Con,” Reed countered. “I’d have to work with Principal Trowbridge and her legion of doom.”
Although the summer season didn’t officially start for another two weeks, a few of the ice cream, trinket, lemonade, and fried-food storefronts had already emerged from hibernation.
“Pro—isn’t this exactly the kind of thing colleges look for?” Arno asked. “At least, that’s what Mr. Shaw says.” Both of them sighed jointly at the evocation of the impossibly dreamy college consultant who appeared last year like a deus ex machina.
“He specifically wrote about that on his blog,” Reed conceded without admitting that his Google alert told him every time a new post dropped. “Did we ever find out where he’s from?”
“The accent’s British, right?”
“Yeah, but he could’ve picked it up at Oxford.”
“Señora Perez-Walters told us he speaks Spanish like”—Arno searched for the words—“a chilango auténtico!”
“After he visited our French class, Monsieur Ouellette said he could pass for a native Parisian.” Reed inflected “Parisian” with his best attempt at a French accent. “Which is just about the greatest praise he could bestow on any mortal.”
“And his website says he also speaks Russian, Arabic, and Farsi.” Arno sighed. “With that skin tone and those green eyes, he could be from anywhere from Spain to the Middle East.”
“Is it wrong to crush on a teacher?” Reed asked with faux concern.
“He’s not technically a teacher.”
“Which is probably why we take him seriously.”
They continued strolling down the worn wood of the boardwalk, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pack of unruly skateboarders.
“Okay—con.” Reed picked up their thread. “If I ran, I’d have to give up GSA.”
“What?” Arno exclaimed. “Really?”
“Student Council distributes money to the rest of the groups,” Reed insisted. “It would be a total conflict of interest.”
A flock of white birds flew above, V-shaped, like a spearhead.
“Okay—another pro,” Arno started shyly. “I’d be your campaign manager.”
Reed stopped walking. “Really?”
“That is a pro, right?”
“Of course!”
This was one of the moments when Reed suspected maybe, just maybe, Arno was crushing on him. Not that Reed had any definitive proof. Arno was so painfully private that despite how much time they spent together, Reed still felt like he barely knew him. Reed and Arno had hung out at Reed’s house many times, but never at Arno’s. He’d never even met Arno’s parents, and only one of his four siblings in passing. Whenever they were together, the conversation moved with a healthy ebb and flow. Only afterward, when replaying it in his mind, did Reed realize how many questions Arno had asked him, and how few Arno himself had answered.
Copyright © 2024 by Michael Barakiva
