Free Far Far Away by Tom McNeal Page A

some distance from here, there is a boy who can hear us
. The slight smile again formed on the specter’s face.
A boy who sleeps in an attic full of fairy tales
.
    I felt something hopeful stirring within me.
    It is more even than that
, the stranger said.
I was told by another specter—a small, nervous woman from Moldova—that there was also in this town a Finder of Occasions who would bring harm to the boy
.
    A Finder of Occasions?
I asked, and the stranger replied,
Someone who lies in wait until the opportunity is afforded to do harm or wreak havoc
—here he cast his ancient, unhappy eyes at me—
without leaving a trace behind
.
    How will I know this boy?
I asked.
What is his name? Where will I look for him?
    He lives in a bookstore. The village itself can be seen only from the corner of the eye
.
    What?
    It is difficult to find but, once found, you will never lose it
. The stranger closed his eyes and searched his memory.
There were red buttes nearby. Red-stone buildings in the town. The smell of sulfur. A bakery with wondrous scents
. He sighed and squinted into the wind.
I cannot tarry. I must go
.
    How do I locate this Finder of Occasions?
I asked, but already the stranger had turned and begun to work his way into the wind.
    Off I hastened, full of expectation, but this boy and his storefilled with books and his attic full of tales were not easily found. From village to village I went, from house to house and shop to shop until finally—I cannot tell you how many days had gone by—I stopped one evening and stood perfectly still. I closed my eyes and let the night wind move past me as the water moves past a rock in the river. How much time slipped by in this manner I cannot say, but when I again opened my eyes, the stars had scattered and the moon had moved and off to the side, almost behind me in fact, in the thinnest sliver of vision, I could just detect a strange and faint illumination.
    I hastened toward this light with uncertainty, and there, taking shape in silhouette, was an array of looming buttes, and a sign that said WELCOME TO NEVER BETTER , and along Main Street there was a bakery producing wondrous aromas, and there, in the last of the business district’s red-block buildings, was a bookstore where a boy sat alone, reading in an armchair under lamplight.
    The window was open.
    When I drew close and whispered,
Listen, if you will
, Jeremy Johnson Johnson looked up from his book, cocked his head, and said hopefully, “Mom?”
    Honestly, I was sorry to disappoint him.
No
, I said.
    Instinctively, he touched a finger to his temple. “Grandpa?”
    Again there was hope in his voice. Again I was sorry to say no.
    “Who are you, then?”
    I cannot explain the phrase I chose.
A beggar
, I said, echoing words from one of our tales,
an ancient beggar with a broken heart. May I stay here awhile?
    Well, what have I told you about this boy’s kindness?—he didnot hesitate an instant. “Sure, if you want,” he said, and asked me my name.
    Jacob
. I pronounced it as it is pronounced:
Yaw-kub
.
    But this was strange to the boy, so he had to repeat it. “Yawkub?”
    Yes
.
    “Your accent is different. Where are you from?”
    And do you know what I said?
I come from long ago and far away
.
    “You do?” he said, and I could hear pleasure in his voice, and truly, for the first moment in all my time in the
Zwischenraum
, I felt something like lightness myself.
    Well, that was how it was. As rapidly as that, I stepped into Jeremy’s tale. I will not deceive you. I hoped that by protecting him from the Finder of Occasions, I might somehow achieve the thing undone, and be released at last from the
Zwischenraum
. I contrived a plan. Jeremy was young and clever, and I believed that the best way to protect him was to move him from this town, and I saw no better way to do this than by his going away to university. So I became not only his protector but also his teacher. And all had gone well, until …
    On this